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POEMS 



WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. 




BOSTON : 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1871. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 

BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 




University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co. ; 
Cambridge. 



2 f/ 



X 
W 

CO 



TO 



EYERT A. DUYCKINCK. 

I inscribe to you, in token of my sincere personal regard, 
this volume of poems. Many of them were written, or their 
material gathered, in scenes visited long since in company 
with your lamented brother, my cherished friend, George L. 
Duyckinck. His name, honorably linked with your own in 
our American literature, I desire affectionately to associate 
with yours on this introductory page. Others of them were 
first produced in connection with the editorial labors in 
which you were both united. The story of " The Sexton and 
the Thermometer " you told me in 1849, as you had gath- 
ered it in that circle of refined good-humor of which the 
late Dr. John M. Francis was the genial centre, and I versi- 
fied it at your request. " Nothing to Wear," before its ap- 
pearance in print, was submitted to your friendly criticism, 
with an honest doubt on my part whether in attempting to 
"shoot folly as it flies," the shaft I was aiming might not 
prove wanting in weight, polish, "br momentum ; and your 
kindly suggestions in aid of my intervention on behalf of 
our earliest American heroine, in "Virginia's Virgin," en- 
courage my perhaps forlorn hope that her almost thread- 



IV 



bare, school-day story, simply retold, may yet find listeners. 
Knowing, as you do, that, so far from cultivating poetry as 
an art, or authorship as a pursuit, I have diverted my pen 
from the strict routine of professional labor only at rare in- 
tervals or by way of mental recreation, you will take my 
volume as it is, a collection of verses, prompted mainly by 
occasional impulses to exhibit, as faithfully as I could, ob- 
jects or ideas for whose most effective representation poetry 
seemed to be the fittest vehicle, whether the motive was nar- 
rative, sentiment, or satire. 

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLEK. 



YONKERS, ON THE HUDSON, 

October, 1871. 



CONTENTS. 



♦— 

Page 
Virginia's Virgin 1 

Poems of Travel. 

The Wanderer 37 

Notre Dame de Eouen 39 

Vaucluse 42 

The Old Woman of Troyes 43 

The Salle Montesquieu ..... 46 
The Torture-Chamber at Eatisbon . . .50 

Titian's "Assumption" 54 

The Incognita of Raphael . . . . .56 

The Inversnaid Inn 60 

Work and Worship 63 

Poems of the City. 

Nothing to Wear ...... 69 

The Sexton and the Thermometer . . .86 

Broadway 95 

The Equestrian Statue of Washington . . 98 

Two Millions 100 

General Average 163 



VI CONTENTS. 

Miscellaneous Poems. 

The Carnival of 1848 183 

The New Aegonatjts 188 

The Graveyard at West Point .... 192 

At Eichmond 195 

The Busts of Goethe and Schiller . . .199 

A Year To-Day 203 

F. B. C 207 

Dobbs His Ferry 210 

Uhland 227 

Translations from Uhland. 

The Beggar 230 

The Shepherd 232 

The Mournful Tournament . . . . 234 

The Nun 237 

The Shepherd's Sabbath Song 239 

The Landlady's Daughter .240 

The Wreath 242 

The Minstrel's Curse 244 

The Three Songs 250 

The Knight of Saint George .... 252 

Two Cities 257 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

In vain the old, heroic Past 

Unfolds its classic page, 
In vain its priceless pearls are cast 

Before our sceptic age. 

The demigods, Time's noblest guests, 

Hero and bard and seer, 
Touched by the critic's chemic tests, 

Dissolve and disappear. 

Dispersed like mist, through Attic skies, 

We see old Homer fade ; 
While Tell in Alpine vapor dies, 

The shadow of a shade. 

Now, ruder hands than those which tear 

The Switzer from his Alp, 
Aloft, with savage fury, bear 

Our Pocahontas' scalp I 



VIRGINIA S VIRGIN. 

Virginia's Virgin, fairest form 

Her native forests saw, 
Flies, ghost-like, through the pelting storm, 

A shivering, shrieking squaw. 

Not thus to outer darkness thrust, 

Not thus shall she depart, 
So dear to boyhood's honest trust, 

To girlhood's tender heart ! 

And while, to-night, the wild wind leaps 
From the far, fierce Northwest, 

From Adirondack's snowy deeps, 
And Catskill's icy crest, 

And past the Hudson's frozen banks, 

With swift, relentless strokes, 
Flies seaward, through the spectral ranks 

Of our centennial oaks, 

By hearthstones heaped with blazing pine, 

The thrice-told tale we hear, 
And gently on the ancient shrine 

The shattered image rear. 



VIRGINIA'S VIEGIN. 

The leaping, laughing tongues of flame 
Mock the wild, wintry blast, 

So shall our native fancies shame 
The rude iconoclast ! 



I. 



We read Virginia's blazoned roll 

Of heroes, and forthwith 
Greets us upon the starry scroll 

That homeliest name, — John Smith ! 

He, tempest tost and weather worn, 

And swept from zone to zone, 
Of all John Smiths of woman born 

Stands foremost and alone. 

And still his face, through prison bars, 

Or flushed on fields of fight, 
All bronzed with toil and seamed with scars, 

Beams on us, bold and bright, 



vieginia's vikgin. 

As when, from Turkish chains scarce free, 

With new, untiring quest, 
He sought across the western sea 

The far-off, fabled West. 

As when, through morning's misty haze, 

And dim, delusive shapes, 
The sunlight pierced, and to his gaze 

Unveiled Virginia's capes. 

Fresh winds blew back the cloudy screen, 

The headlands opened wide, 
White lines of beach and forests green 

Through the cleft channel guide. 

Within, as past the capes he steered, 

A new Atlantic lay, 
So to his startled sight appeared 

The vast, imperial bay. 

Fed by five rivers, hurrying down 

This ocean gate to seek, 
Full well it wore its ancient crown, 

The lordly Chesapeake. 



VIRGINIAS VIRGIN. 

Its broad breast, swept by gales of Spring, 

Heaved silent and alone, 
Save where the wild bird's restless wing 

Across the wave was thrown. 

Alone and silent, until now, 

Through ocean's opened door, 
Strange keels the trackless waters plough, 

And coast the pathless shore. 

Pale faces from the prows look out, 

And o'er the wide expanse 
Loud rings the white man's joyous shout, 

Far darts his eager glance. 

Soon in smooth seas the worn barks glide, 

By the broad river's mouth, 
Where now Point Comfort's sheltering side 

Slopes gently toward the south. 

Land, water, all that swims and grows, 

The glad discoverers claim, 
And give the river as it flows 

Their English monarch's name. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

Their anchors by the shore are cast, 

Their tattered sails are furled, 
And light at heart, their feet, at last, 

Are on the Western World. 

A few brave spirits, but at best 

A roving, reckless band, 
Their gallant leader, of the rest 

The eye, the heart, the hand. 

His the cool brain, the self-swayed will, 
Stanch heart and steady nerve, 

No chance could warp, no storm could chill, 
No fate nor fortune swerve. 

His the keen zest which Nature plants 
In those whose souls she smites 

With longings for her secret haunts 
And undiscovered heights. 

Along the wooded shore he strolled, 
Where now the new- crowned James 

Threw back, as from a shield of gold, 
The shafts of sunset flames. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

He mused on what those hills might hide, 

Beyond the forest shore, — 
What human homes, what pastures wide, 

What veins of virgin ore. 

And, like the flush of sunset's hour, 

Across his fancy came 
The golden hues of wealth and power, 

The purple tints of fame. 

A transient glory, for the gleam 

Of sunset died away, 
And from his sobered thought the dream 

Passed with the parting ray. 

0, then had some prophetic trance 

His inner sight unsealed, 
And all the future, at a glance, 

In that rapt hour revealed, 

As when by Chebar's lonely tide 

The captive prophet gazed, 
The opening heavens, far and wide, 

With fiery visions blazed, 



10 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

So had he caught by this lone strand, 

In this dim twilight shade, 
The coming glories of the land 

Whose corner-stone he laid. 

The sovereign State whose walls should rise, 

Securely, day by day ; 
The mother of the brave and wise, 

The light of Freedom's way. 

A beacon through the first wild storm 

That shook the infant land, 
Till with new heavens, pure and warm, 

Peace all its borders spanned. 

In brighter years a chosen guide, 

A leader tried and true, 
When linked together, side by side, 

The young republics grew. 

Nor less his prophet's eye would mark 

The fatal blot of shame, 
The rayless shadow, deep and dark, 

Which stained that virgin fame. 



VIRGINIA'S VIKGIN. 11 

Foremost in love, so first in hate, 

Falsest who most had vowed, 
Its trust betrayed, — a rebel State, 

With war's red furrows ploughed. 

Here, where he stood, the fortress gun, 

With dull, resounding jar, 
Should greet each morning's lurid sun, 

Each evening's baleful star. 

And here, where night- winds swept the bay, 

The fight be lost and won, 
Which made of Hampton Roads that day 

Another Marathon. 

There the dark iron monster came, 

Its fires by fury fanned, 
There struck the Congress, sheathed in flame, 

There sank the Cumberland. 

From all her ports her broadsides poured, 

Aloft her colors flew, 
Fighting she sank, with all on board, 

Brave captain, gallant crew ! 



12 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

There, through the parting war-cloud, crept 
The strange mysterious craft ; 

From lip to lip the wonder leapt, — 
" A cheese-box on a raft I " 

Straight towards the fatal monster's hulk, 
With steady course, she bore ; 

How frail beside its giant bulk 
The little Monitor ! 

Swift from her turret's iron throat 

The bolts of vengeance sped, 
The monster's triple mail they smote, 

And from the sea it fled. 

So from Virginia's azure shield 

The bar of shame shall fly, 
And her clear future stand revealed, 

A cloudless, stainless sky ! 



vikginia's virgin. 13 



II. 



" James, by the grace of God," — so ran 
The charter, signed and sealed, 

Whereby the realms of Powhatan, 
Forest and flood and field, 

Mountain and meadow, moor and mine, 

Each river in its bed, 
For England's crown, by right Divine, 

Were seized and forfeited. 

Now by what grace reigned Powhatan 

No charter had ordained, 
Sufficient for his savage plan 

The simple fact — he reigned. 

He questioned not of right or wrong, 

Nor further cared to seek 
Than that safe rule which makes the strong 

The sovereign of the weak. 



14 vieginia's "VTKGIN. 

'T was Nature taught this primal law, 

Beasts, birds, and insects all, 
Throughout his wide domain he saw 

The great consume the small. 

Pharaoh's lean kine devoured the fat ; 

But Powhatan had seen, 
As by his western Nile he sat, 

The fat devour the lean. 

Straightway his shrewd and savage tact, 
Which served in reason's place, 

Applied the universal fact 
To his peculiar race. 

Fish preys on fish, and beast on beast, 

Each conquers where it can, 
Like feeds on like, then last, not least, 

Mankind should prey on man. 

And thus, while Old World brains grew hot 

With doubts of kingly thrall, 
His sharper instinct cut the knot, 

And gave the strongest all. 



Virginia's virgin. 15 

The strongest he, self-crowned, self-throned, 

He spread his conquests far, 
Though thirty tribes his sceptre owned, 

His Empire still was War. 

In tangled brakes, on mountain walls, 

He bore the battle's brunt, 
Who can withstand when Nature calls 

Her heroes to the front ? 

And when she formed, 'midst forest blooms, 

Her pre-historic man, 
For all a savage hero's plumes, 

She fashioned Powhatan. 

His lightning glance she gave to him, 

His voice her thunder spoke, 
From her, his iron strength of limb, 

From her, his heart of oak. 

She gave the deer's fleet foot beside, 

The panther's stealthy wile, 
The native eagle's soaring pride, 

And all the serpent's guile. 



16 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

He towered like some gigantic pine, 
Which thrusts the trees aside, 

And seems to shout, " The hills are mine, 
And mine the woodlands wide ! " 

Foremost where glory could be won, 

All dangers prompt to woo, 
What more had Alexander done, 

Or could Napoleon do ? 

And as his widening empire grew, 
Still taught in Nature's school, 

She gave the craft by which he knew 
Those savage tribes to rule. 

Firm as her laws, which never cease, 
Fixed as her planets' course, 

He organized his rude police, 
And myriad schemes of force. 

His only code his stout war-club, 
Whereby all doubts he solved, 

Round which, as round a central hub, 
The wheel of state revolved. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 17 

To rule each tribe, beneath his eye, 

A sovereign chief he placed, 
Who with the title, proud and high, 

Of Werowance was graced. 

Each Werowance served- Powhatan, 

The creature of his breath, 
Yet each o'er his inferior clan 

Had power of life and death. 

No chance could mar, no change perplex, 

The sway this plan describes, 
His foot was on their several necks, 

Theirs on each several tribe's. 

And thus a denser glory wrapped 

His shrouded, central throne, 
A summit lofty and cloud-capped, 

A height unsealed, unknown. 

Far off the simple savage knelt, 

And owned its distant sway ; 
Round the rude wigwam where he dwelt 

Its awful shadow lay. 
2 



18 vikginia's vikgin. 

He breathed the monarch's fearful name, 

And trembled and obeyed, 
With wampum-shells and fruits and game 

His punctual tribute paid. 

Thus, while to older worlds unknown, 

His praise no poet sang, 
And through his native hills alone, 

His victor war-whoop rang, 

Around the throne of Powhatan 

More stable glories lay 
Than those whose rainbow colors span 

The rulers of to-day. 

No wire-drawn laws with spiteful checks, 

No Congress to upbraid, 
No fickle ballot to perplex, 

No sudden barricade. 

No party, out of power, to curse ; 

In power, to foster feuds ; 
No prowling Sachems, sly to nurse 

Their ring-streaked, spotted broods. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 19 

No press, with censures thunder-tipped, 

Or sly sardonic laugh, 
Or, worse than arrows venom-dipped, 

Its poisoned paragraph. 

No courts in which corruption paves 

A path through crooked laws, 
No platforms loud with brawling braves, 

Or shrill with shrieking squaws. 

Thus radiant with the morning hues 

Of fair primeval states, 
His subjects roamed, all free to choose 

Their savage loves and hates. 

Their savage loves and hates they chose, 

The war-path and the chase, 
Faithful to friends and fierce to foes, 

A wild, revengeful race. 

On mountains older than the Alps, 

Through valleys, torrent torn, 
They sought their trophies, — warrior scalps, 

And plumes by chieftains worn. 



20 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

Or in the tangled forest brake 

The round-horned elk they fought, 

Or snared the weasel and the snake, 
For idol worship sought. 

Or, safe from threatening winds and floods, 

They drilled the garden row, 
Taught by the forest's bursting buds 

What time the seed to sow. 

And over all ruled Powhatan, 
What realm more rich or fair, 

Where nobler rivers seaward ran, 
Through balmier, fresher air ? 

Near the broad river's gentle flood, 

Where Richmond stands to-day, 

In the deep shadow of the wood 

The royal wigwams lay. 
I 

Here, with his braves, the monarch came 

To rest from rougher toils, 
Retouch his war-paint's faded flame, 

And count his gathered spoils. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 21 

Then, for a season, fight and feud 
Through all the tribes would cease, 

And, calm as some sweet interlude, 
All nature breathed of peace. 

The curling smoke, the waving corn, 

The wild-flowers' blossoming, 
And, jewelled with the dews of morn, 

The unfolding leaf of Spring. 

Fresh as the Spring's unfolding leaf, 

Pure as the morning dew, 
Blithe daughter of the forest chief, 

Here Pocahontas grew. 

By great Kanawha's rocky edge 

The scattered wild-flowers grow, 
On Alleghany's frowning ledge 

The fairest buds will blow. 

I 

Sometimes the floweret seems to be 

The offspring of the rock, 
A miracle this grace to see, 

From such a savage stock ; 



22 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

Deep in the granite's riven breast 

Some genial soil has lain, 
Warmed by the sunshine's noontide rest, 

"Wet by the early rain ; 

Thither the tiny, floating germ 
The breath of spring has blown, 

It nestles in that grasp so firm, 
And thus the flower has grown. 

So, by the savage chief, had sprung 

This forest floweret fair, 
And to his ruder nature clung, 

And gently blossomed there. 

And yet a life he never knew 
Seemed in her soul to dwell, 

Around his path the shadows drew, 
On hers the sunlight fell. 

A hidden life by Nature wrought, 

All joyous and intense, 
Her quickening breath in every thought, 

Her pulse in every sense. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 23 

An Indian girl, scarce twelve years old, 

With skin of dusky shade, 
Of whom but little can be told, — 

A simple woodland maid. 

Her childhood knew no opened book, 

No wide, unfolded map, 
No fragrant tree of knowledge shook 

Its blossoms in her lap. 

Within, the wigwam walls she saw, 

Where pipes and arrows hung, 
The painted chief, the wrinkled squaw, 

With charms and feathers strung. 

Without, her fearless footsteps pressed 

The secret forest trail, 
Through glades which hid the red-bird's nest, 

Virginia's nightingale ; 

Or where, in laurelled thickets lost, 

It swept the silent pool, 
Whose waves the floating lilies tost, 

In shadows deep and cool. 



24 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

Hers the fresh morning's hillside breeze, 

The sheltering pines at noon, 
At eve the watch, through trembling trees, 

Of stars or crescent moon. 

And learning, with half-conscious choice, 
Of flower and breeze and bird, 

We may not know what better voice 
Her musing spirit heard ; 

Swayed by that breath Divine, whose trace 

No sign in nature shows, 
A tender whisper, full of grace, 

And where it lists it blows ! 



Virginia's virgin. 25 



III. 

Now through the realms of Powhatan, 

Borne inland from the bay, 
A strange and sudden rumor ran, 

More strange than words could say ; 

Of barks that from the outer seas 
Through the wide waters sped, 

With masts that towered like forest trees, 
And wings of white outspread. 

Of bearded, pale-faced men, who came 

From ocean's utmost bound, 
With weapons of the lightning flame 

And the dread thunder's sound. 

Men of strange speech and aspect bold, 
In garments bravely wrought, 

With glittering gifts and wealth untold, 
From far-off regions brought. 



26 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

And one, whose blue eye proudly beamed, 
With high, commanding glance, 

Who led the others, and who seemed 
A mighty Werowance. 

Such was the tale, and furthermore, 

That this mysterious band 
Had anchored by the river's shore, 

And there possessed the land. 

These things, within his forest bower, 
Heard Powhatan ; straightway 

Against this new, encroaching power 
He knew his war-path lay. 

He felt no dread, though threescore years 
Round him their storms had spent, 

His stout heart had no room for fears, 
His knee had never bent. 

Not on his shore a race unknown 
With ampler sway should spring, 

Than his he brooked no loftier throne, 
Himself the kingliest king. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 27 

As the Blue Ridge, in snowy drifts, 

The hot springs hides, so burned 
His hidden wrath, — he spurned their gifts, 

Their pipes of peace he spurned. 

These things, within her forest bower, 

Did Pocahontas hear, 
And day by day, and hour by hour, 

They charmed her listening ear. 

They brought, she knew not how nor whence, 

Bright hopes, foretokens bright ; 
They brought a new and blessed sense 

Of fuller life and light. 

One night beneath the evening star, 

When all was hushed without, 
As thus she dreamed, she heard afar 

The warrior's homeward shout. 

From river bank, past field and plain, 

The glad news spread like flame, 
A captive in her father's train, 

The pale-faced chieftain came. 



28 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

Round blazing fires wild welcomes rang, 
Glad songs the victors greet ; 

Silent, with fluttering heart, she sprang 
The captive foe to meet. 

One stealthy look, with tearful eye, 

One glance with eager face, 
So swift, so keen, it cut the tie 

That bound her to her race. 

For in that captive, bleeding, bound, 

Sport of the savage crew, 
With grateful, glowing heart she found 

The dream within her true. 

The better life she craved seemed now 

In all his life astir, 
And from his high, unpainted brow 

It spoke and greeted her. 

Those fancied joys, those hopes unnamed, 
Seemed from his lips to call, 

And all her love and reverence claimed, 
Childlike, she gave them all. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 29 

Thenceforth that love she never spoke, 

That reverence none could share, 
Were his, as round some mighty oak 

Circles the Summer air. 

Her father's stern, unbending law 

Too well her eye could read, 
And, in his fatal frown, she saw 

The captive's death decreed. 

Child of her sire, she felt no fear, 

Nor from her purpose shrank, 
From the deep fountain, still and clear, 

Of her own spirit drank. 

His life, his rescue, all her care, 

Though faint her hope and dim, 
Untaught to pray, each thought a prayer, 

And every thought for him. 

And when, beneath the summer sky, 

In the broad noonday light, 
They brought the victim forth to die, 

She did not shun the sight. 



30 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

That gentle foot which never yet 
Had crushed the tiniest worm, 

Beyond the foremost rank was set, 
A footfall light and firm. 

He stood alone to meet his fate, 

And, like the tide's full flood, 
Around him swelled the waves of hate, 

The Indian's thirst for blood. 

His quick glance swept each scowling rank, 

And caught its demon glare ; 
He bowed his head, his brave heart sank, 

He saw no pity there. 

A moment's silence, like the pause 

That hushes human lips, 
When, in mid heaven, the sun withdraws, 

In total, dark eclipse ; 

Through that dead hush, that demon glare, 

The fatal signal fell — 
The war-club circles in the air, 

Bursts forth the savage yell. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 31 

Poised like the breaking billow's crest, 

She sees, she hears, she springs, 
Her head is on the victim's breast, 

Around his neck she clings. 

No cry, no word, there needed none, 

Her simple action spoke, 
A voice to break a heart of stone, 

Those hearts of stone it broke. 

Harmless the lifted war-club fell, 

In the green thicket cast, 
In silence died the savage yell, 

The storm of hate was past. 

From the pure light of love like this, 

Their hellish purpose fled, 
Full orbed, across the dark abyss, 

Its rising beam was shed. 

Through all that forest shade it streamed, 

And on each dusky face, 
Spark of that love which once redeemed 

And ransomed all our race. 



32 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

By him, whose life she saved, she stands, 
The conquered chief forgives, 

With gentlest touch she joins their hands, 
Her sole, sweet thought, " He lives ! " 

And still we see, above the gloom 

Of that retreating storm, 
Unveiled in love's perennial bloom, 

This fair, transfigured form ; 

Like Mercy in the Pilgrim's dreams, 

Crowned in a vision fair, 
A dream within a dream, she seems 

An angel's crown to wear. 

Her after-life our memory keeps, 
The household names she wore, 

And where the wife and mother sleeps 
On England's wave-washed shore. 

Yet all our fancies turn to-day 
On this sweet scene to dwell, 

Where on her calm, secluded way 
Such sudden glory fell. 



VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 33 



And still she lives, the Indian maid, 
Beneath Virginia's skies, 

Who on her native altars laid 
Love's crowning sacrifice. 



i & 



For her sweet sake, a passing sigh 

To her wild race we give, — 
A hopeless shadow on its brow, 

Homeless and fugitive. 

Wisely the olive-branch we reach 

To these fierce, faithless men, 
Through those who keep the friendly speech 

And Quaker faith of Penn. 

Their path, through wild sierras, seeks 

The goal where war shall cease, 
How fair, on those far rocky peaks, 

Their feet who publish peace ! 

Speed to this goal their mission mild, 
Then Love's strong arm shall bar 

The wrongs which shroud, with tempests wild, 
The Red Man's setting star. 
3 



34 VIRGINIA'S VIRGIN. 

So shall our kindlier rule efface 
The sense of ancient woes, 

So pay the debt which all our race 
To Pocahontas owes ! 



POEMS OF TRAVEL. 



1846 - 1847. 



THE WANDERER. 

rare delight of seeing, 
joy unchecked of being 
Abroad and free, in this wide world of ours ! 
Such pleasure the birds have, 
Winging o'er wood and wave, 

O'er meadows bright with dew, bright with perpet- 
ual flowers. 

Still fares the wanderer forth, 

And still the exhaustless Earth 

With all her treasures greets her wayward child ; 

For him, on all her shores, 

She spreads her countless stores, 

In sunlit beauty strewn, or solemn grandeur piled. 

The plain at early light ; 

At noon, the mountain height ; 

At eve, the valley, with its shadows deep ; 

At night, the cataract, 



38 THE WANDERER. 

Or ocean's boundless tract, 

With ceaseless rush of waves, or murmurs soft as 
sleep. 

To-day, the crowded mart, 
The sacred shrines of Art, 
The domes of empire, the cathedral vast ; 
To-morrow, the wild woods, 
Or desert solitudes, 

With shattered temples strewn and fragments of the 
Past. 

Tempt not my feet to stay ; 

Along the upward way, 

Across the earth, across the sparkling sea, 

Beyond the distant isles, 

The far horizon smiles, 

And where its voices call, thither my steps must be ! 



NOTRE DAME DE ROUEN. 

[The symbolism of mediaeval art is well illustrated by M. Michelet in his His- 
tory of France, in the chapter entitled " The Passion a Principle of Art in the 
Middle Ages."] 

Here, as the vesper chant 

Sinks to its close, 
While not a murmur 

Breaks the repose, 

In silence I ponder, 

Musing alone, 
The Church's deep mystery, 

Sculptured in stone. 

In the solemn cathedral, 

Now as of old, 
The Passion of Calvary 

Still we behold. 



40 NOTEE DAME DE EOUEN. 

The Cross and the Crucified, 

Yes, it is He, 
The suffering Saviour, 

Nailed to the tree ! 

As the choir from the transept 
Bends to the West, 

So His head in the agony- 
Drooped on His breast. 

In the stains of the windows, 

Purple and red, 
Streams the blood which for sinners 

Freely was shed. 

Each stone is a symbol, 

Graven and scarred ; 
So with keenest anguish 

His form was marred. 

Yet in all shapes of beauty 

Wondrously wrought, 
So the shame and the agony 

Our healing brought ! 



NOTEE DAME DE ROUEN. 41 

Yonder a penitent, 

Burdened within, 
Kneels on the altar steps, 

Sighing for sin. 

So the dying thief prayed, 

By His pierced side ; 
' In thy kingdom remember me/ 7 

Fainting, he cried. 

The crypt lies beneath us ; 

There, in the gloom, 
Sleeps the buried Redeemer, 

In Joseph's tomb. 

The spire springs toward heaven, 

Where angels sing ; 
It is Jesus ascending, 

Victor and King 1 



VAUCLUSE. 

Less because Petrarch and his Muse have made 
These hills and streams immortal as his fame, 
Linked in melodious verse with Laura's name, 
Than for thy sake, Nature ! have I strayed 
To this wild region. In the rocky glade, 
Deep at the mountain's base, the fountains keep 
Their ceaseless gushing, till the waters leap 
A mighty torrent from the endless shade ; 
A moment linger there in glassy rest, 
Break on the craggy steep with foaming crest, 
Then thunder through the chasm, swift and strong ! 
So burst the Poet's passion from his breast, 
Noiseless and deep and pure, to flood erelong 
The listening tracts of Time with ceaseless tides of 
song ! 



THE OLD WOMAN OF TKOYES. 

She is an old woman, certainly one 
Of the most remarkable under the sun, 
Not even excepting the old woman who 
Lived very retired in the heel of a shoe, 

And was troubled with troublesome boys ; 
The very quintessence of spirit and strength, 
Corked down in a body not four feet in length, 
And perhaps I should add, the very personi- 
Fication of everything skinny and bony, 

Is this Old Woman of Troyes ! 

As soon as the diligence, clatter, and clang, 
Gets into the square, and pulls up with a bang, 
Probably waking up half of the people, 
And shaking the town from the stones to the steeple, 

With a terrible racket and noise ; 
Out of Le Grand Mulet (mentioned by Murray 
As " good, clean, and cheap "), in all sorts of a hurry, 
With a light in her hand, — of course a rush light, — 



44 THE OLD WOMAN OF TROYES. 

She comes with a rush, in the depth of the night, 
This queer Old Woman of Troyes ! 

She unloads in a trice, I really can't state 
Exactly the number of cwt., 

From the top of the diligence down to the flags ; 
While as for such matters as baskets and bags, 

They 're nothing but trifles and toys ; 
Around and around the old woman scampers, 
Amongst packages, boxes, and barrels, and hampers ; 
A bale of packed cotton, or load of pressed hay, 
Would be nothing at all, I '11 venture to say, 

To this Old Woman of Troyes ! 

While we are looking, she 's gone for a minute, 
Flies to the court-yard, and disappears in it, 
But only, it seems, to take a fresh start, 
For out of the gate with a monster hand-cart, 

Like a squadron of horse she deploys ; 
Then into it piles up trunks, boxes, and chests, 
As a tailor would pile up trousers and vests, 
Hops into the shafts like a twelve-pounder shot, 
And off through the streets, at a rousing round trot, 

Goes this Old Woman of Troyes ! 



THE OLD WOMAN OF TEOYES. 45 

Now, if Hugo or Scribe had been in the coupe, 
Or Janin or Sue, it 's easy to say, 
That, besides with the hand-cart this very long run, 
In a novel or play she might have had one, 

And made a prodigious great noise ; 
Or in England, that country of guilds and of crafts, 
She 'd surely be christened the Countess of Shafts, 
Leaving the bury out of the word, 
Which would make it too long, by more than a third, 

For this Old Woman of Troyes I 

Now, ye mothers all over the world attend, 

And I '11 give you the moral that comes at the end ; 

If you have a large family, in a long series 

Of Peggies, and Sallies, and Annas, and Maries ; 

Without wishing your girls had been boys, 
Don't make of these Peggies, or Annas, or Maries, 
Hot-house camellias or gilt-cage canaries, 
To break other people's and then their own hearts, 
But teach them the useful, industrial arts 

Of this Old Woman of Troyes ! 



THE SALLE MONTESQUIEU. 

A PARISIAN REMINISCENCE. 

From the doors of the Trois Freres Provengaux, 

Eich realm, where the code is the Carte, 
And the cooks are the monarchs supreme, 

And the dishes the triumphs of art, 
I sauntered, digestively slow, 

Through the lines of the dazzling Arcade, 
And forth to the Rue de Valois, 

And the gloom of its parvenu shade ; 
Thence on, in the dusk of the night, 

Through quartier, passage, and rue, 
Till I chanced where the gas-lamps blazed bright 

In front of the Salle Montesquieu ! 

The fagade loomed large in the dark, 
The doors opened wide on the hall, 

And forth, from the merry within, 

To the street came the sound of the ball ; 



THE SALLE MONTESQUIEU. 47 

The jeune gens were flocking in crowds, 

With each the grisette of his taste, 
The knights of the Joinville cravat, 

And the dames of the miniature waist ; 
I followed their footsteps, delighted, 

And paid at the door my ten sous, 
As set forth in the bill that invited 

" All the world to the Salle Montesquieu! " 

The blaze from the chandelier poured 

On the crowd as they wandered at will, 
Now, thronged in the gay promenade, 

And now, in the mazy quadrille ; 
In full flourish the orchestra played, 

As scorning a moment's repose, 
Incessant the scrape of the fiddles, 

Tremendous the crash at the close ! 
The dancers kept up with its notes, 

Such contortions Saint Vitus ne'er knew, 
As astonished my wondering eyes 

On the floor of the Salle Montesquieu ! 

How bright were those beaming black eyes, 
Those smiles and those dimples how sweet ! 



48 THE SALLE MONTESQUIEU. 

How the roses bloomed fair on each cheek, 

And the ringlets waved wild in the heat ! 
What odds if the color was rouge, 

What odds if the tresses were false, 
As they gleamed in the polka's gay maze, 

Or whirled in the magical waltz ? 
Farewell to the circles refined, 

Where beauty is tiresome and true, 
And hail to the flashier charms 

Of the belles of the Salle Montesquieu I 



Alas for the faded passees ! 

On back benches unnoticed they sit, 
While before them the belles of to-day 

In the pride of their merriment flit ; 
Alas for the charms that have fled, 

For the wrinkles that show in their place, 
For the voice that has ceased to allure, 

And the smile that has changed to grimace ! 
In vain are pomatum and paint 

The graces of youth to renew, 
7 Tis the new generation that reigns 

To-night in the Salle Montesquieu ! 



THE SALLE MONTESQUIEU. 49 

? T is la jeune France that flourishes here, 

She has found the arcanum at last, 
As forlorn as the faded coquette, 

In her eyes are the forms of the Past ; 
Religion is tiresome and old, 

The day of morality's done, 
A bas with the troublesome prude, 

And vive the bold, witty Lionne! 
What 's liberty worth with restrictions ? 

From the tricolor banish the blue ; 
The refuge of Freedom is France, 

And her shrine is the Salle Montesquieu ! 



THE TOKTUKE-CHAMBER AT RATISBON, 

Down the broad, imperial Danube, 
As its wandering waters guide, 

Past the mountains and the meadows, 
Winding with the stream, we glide. 

Ratisbon we leave behind us, 

Where the spires and gables throng, 

And the huge cathedral rises, 
Like a fortress, vast and strong. 

Close beside it stands the Town Hall, 
With its massive tower, alone, 

Brooding o'er the dismal secret, 
Hidden in its heart of stone. 

There, beneath the old foundations, 

Lay the prisons of the state, 
Like the last abodes of vengeance, 

In the fabled realms of Fate. 



THE TORTURE-CHAMBER AT RATISBON. 51 

And the tides of life above them 

Drifted ever, near and wide, 
As at Venice, round the prisons, 

Sweeps the sea's incessant tide. 

Never, like the far-off dashing, 

Or the nearer rush of waves, 
Came the tread or murmur downward, 

To those dim, unechoing caves. 

There the dungeon clasped its victim, 
And a stupor chained his breath, 

Till the Torture woke his senses, 
With a sharper touch than Death. 

Now, through all the vacant silence, 
Reign the darkness and the damp, 

Broken only when the traveller 

Gropes his way, with guide and lamp, 

Peering where, all black and shattered, 

Eaten with the rust of Time, 
Lie the fearful signs and tokens 

Of an age when Law was Crime. 



52 THE TORTURE-CHAMBER AT RATISBON. 

Then the guide, with grim precision, 
Tells the dismal tale once more, 

Tells to living men, the tortures 
Living men have borne before. 

As he speaks, the death-cold cavern 
With a sudden life-gush warms, 

And, once more, the Torture-Chamber, 
With its murderous tenants swarms. 

Yonder, through the narrow archway, 
Comes the culprit in the gloom, 

Falters on the fatal threshold, 
Totters to the bloody doom. 

Here the executioner, lurking, 

Waits, with brutal thirst, his hour, 

Tool of bloodier men and bolder, 
Drunken with the dregs of power. 

There the careful leech sits patient, 
Watching face, and hue, and breath, 

Weighing life's fast-ebbing pulses 
With the heavier chance of death. 



THE TORTURE-CHAMBER AT RATISBON. 53 

Eking out the little remnant, 

Lest the victim die too soon, 
And the torture of the morning 

Spare the torture of the noon. 

Here, behind the heavy grating, 
Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll, 

Waiting till the giant terror 
Bursts the secrets of the soul ; 

Till the fearful tale of treason 

From the shrieking lips is wrung, 

Or the final, false confession 

Quivers from the trembling tongue ! 



But the gray old tower is fading, 
Fades, in sunshine, from the eye, 

Like some bird whose distant pinion 
Dimly blots the morning sky. 

So the ancient gloom and terror 

Of the ages fade away, 
In the sunlight of the present, 

Of our better, purer day ! 



TITIAN'S "ASSUMPTION." 

Burst is the iron gate ! 

And, from the night of fate, 
Out of the darkness and the gloom abhorred ; 

Amidst the choral hymn, 

With cloud and cherubim, 
The Virgin leaves the tomb, — arisen like her Lord ! 

Free in the heavens she soars, 

While the clear radiance pours, 
Like a vast glory, round her upward face ; 

And higher still, and higher, 

With the angelic choir, 
The soul by grace regained, regains the realms of 
grace. 

In mortal shape ! and yet, 
Upon her brow is set 
The new celestial glory, like a crown ; 



TITIAN'S "ASSUMPTION." 55 

Her eyes anticipate 
The bright eternal state ; 
Her arms to heaven extend ; to her the heavens reach 
down ! 

We, with the saints beneath, 

Half lose our mortal breath, 
With sense and soul still following where she flies ; 

They, rapt into the light 

Of the miraculous sight, — 
We, of the wondrous art that gives it to our eyes ! 



THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL. 

[The portrait to which the following verses refer is in the Pitti Palace, at 
Florence.] 

Long has the summer sunlight shone 
On the fair form, the quaint costume ; 

Yet, nameless still, she sits, unknown, 
A lady in her youthful bloom. 

Fairer for this ! no shadows cast 
Their blight upon her perfect lot, 

Whatever her future or her past, 
In this bright moment matters not. 

No record of her high descent 

There needs, nor memory of her name ; 

Enough that Raphael's colors blent 
To give her features deathless fame ! 



THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL. 57 

'T was his anointing hand that set 
The crown of beauty on her brow ; 

Still lives its early radiance yet, 
As at the earliest, even now. 

'T is not the ecstasy that glows 

In all the rapt Cecilia's grace ; 
Nor yet the holy, calm repose 

He painted on the Virgin's face. 

Less of the heavens, and more of earth, 
There lurk within these earnest eyes, 

The passions that have had their birth 
And grown beneath Italian skies. 

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams, 
What hopes, and fears, and longings rest 

Where falls the folded veil, or gleams 
The golden necklace on her breast ! 

What mockery of the painted glow 
May shade the secret soul within ; 

What griefs from passion's overflow, 
What shame that follows after sin ! 



58 THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL. 

Yet calm as heaven's serenest deeps 

Are those pure eyes, those glances pure ; 

And queenly is the state she keeps, 
In beauty's lofty trust secure. 

And who has strayed, by happy chance, 
Through all those grand and pictured halls, 

Nor felt the magic of her glance, 
As when a voice of music calls ? 

Not soon shall I forget the day, 

Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time, 

While on the glowing canvas lay 
The light of that delicious clime ; 

I marked the matchless colors wreathed 
On the fair brow, the peerless cheek ; 

The lips, I fancied, almost breathed 

The blessings that they could not speak. 

Fair were the eyes with mine that bent 
Upon the picture their mild gaze, 

And dear the voice that gave consent 
To all the utterance of my praise. 



THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL. 59 

fit companionship of thought ; 

happy memories, shrined apart ; 
The rapture that the painter wrought, 

The kindred rapture of the heart ! 



THE INVEKSNAID INN. 

[Written in the " Visitors' Book," October 18, 1847.] 

The season is ended, the cold days begin, 

It 's all over now with the Inversnaid Inn, 

Ben Lomond's bleak forehead, the tempest-tossed 

Loch, 
The wind as it whistles o'er forest and rock, 
The leaves whirled in heaps o'er the bog and the brook, 
But, more plainly, the leaves of this Visitors' Book, 
Proclaim the sad truth that the dark days begin, 
And it 's all over now with the Inversnaid Inn ! 

By these rugged hillsides, these valleys profound, 
The travelling public no longer abound. 
No more the tall Scot, with his buskin and plaid, 
Arrives with the question, "What drink's to be 

had?" 
Nor Englishman turns from his tramp or his sail 
With eager inquiry for mutton and ale ; 



THE INVERSNAID INN. 61 

Nor Irishman, fresh from his darlin' Dublin, 
Makes merry the walls of the Inversnaid Inn. 

No more shall the student, just out for a lark, 
With head growing light as the evening grows dark ; 
Nor the " mercantile gent" from Glasgow or Perth, 
Who looks at the landscape to see what it 's worth ; 
Nor travelling curate, nor respited jurist, 
Nor clerk out on leave, nor tradesman turned tourist, — 
With the landlord' slow bow, or the hostler's broad grin, 
Be received at the porch of the Inversnaid Inn. 

No more shall "my lord,' 7 with his chaplain and 

groom, 
Have his luncheon served up in a separate room ; 
Nor Stirling's sweet maidens with glad songs awake 
The echoes that sleep by the shores of the lake ; 
Nor parties of pleasure escape from the Trosachs, 
With curses on innkeepers worse than the Cossacks, 
To advise future travellers rather to pin 
Their faith on the landlord of Inversnaid Inn. 

No, the season is ended, the dark days begin ; 
From Stirling and Glasgow the last coach is in, 



62 THE INVEKSNAirr INN. 

The last joint is roasted, the larder is bare, 
The smoke from the kitchen has faded in air, 
The last bill receipted, the last guinea paid, 
The last shilling doled to the brisk chambermaid ; 
The landlord may delve and the landlady spin, 
They will get no more cash from the Inversnaid Inn. 

A sad picture of life ! its pleasures fly fast, 

The breezes of fortune give way to its blast, 

The bright hues of romance grow yellow and brown, 

The sunshine of fame is eclipsed by its frown, 

The warm glow of friendship and passion is chilled, 

The echoes of love in the bosom are stilled, 

The tempest without and the darkness within, 

We are left in the storm, like the Inversnaid Inn ! 



WORK AND WORSHIP. 

" Labor are est orare."— St. Augustine. 

Charlemagne, the mighty monarch, 
As through Metten wood he strayed, 

Found the holy hermit, Hutto, 
Toiling in the forest glade. 

In his hand the woodman's hatchet, 
By his side the knife and twine, 

There he cut and bound the fagots 
From the gnarled and stunted pine. 

Well the monarch knew the hermit 
For his pious works and cares, 

And the wonders which had followed 
From his vigils, fasts, and prayers. 

Much he marvelled now to see him 
Toiling thus, with axe and cord ; 

And he cried in scorn, " Father, 
Is it thus you serve the Lord ? " 



64 WOKK AND WORSHIP. 

But the hermit, resting neither 
Hand nor hatchet, meekly said : 

" He who does no daily labor 
May not ask for daily bread. 

" Think not that my graces slumber 
While I toil throughout the day ; 

For all honest work is worship, 
And to labor is to pray. 

" Think not that the heavenly blessing 
From the workman's hand removes ; 

Who does best his task appointed, 
Him the Master most approves." 

While he spoke the hermit, pausing 
For a moment, raised his eyes 

Where the overhanging branches 
Swayed beneath the sunset skies. 

Through the dense and vaulted forest 
Straight the level sunbeam came, 

Shining like a gilded rafter, 

Poised upon a sculptured frame. 



WOEK AND WORSHIP. 65 

Suddenly, with kindling features, 
While he breathes a silent prayer, 

See, the hermit throws his hatchet, 
Lightly, upward in the air. 

Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming, 

As it flashes through the shade, 
And descending, lo ! the sunbeam 

Holds it dangling by the blade ! 

" See, my son," exclaimed the hermit, — 
" See the token Heaven has sent ; 

Thus to humble, patient effort 
Faith's miraculous aid is lent. 

Toiling, hoping, often fainting, 

As we labor, Love Divine 
Through the shadows pours its sunlight, 

Crowns the work, vouchsafes the sign ! " 

Homeward, slowly, went the monarch, 

Till he reached his palace hall, 
Where he strode among his warriors, 

He the bravest of them all. 
5 



66 WOKK AND WOKSHIP. 

Soon the Benedictine Abbey 
Rose beside the hermit's cell ; 

He, by royal hands invested, 
Ruled, as Abbot, long and well. 

Now beside the rushing Danube 
Still its ruined walls remain, 

Telling of the hermit's patience, 
And the zeal of Charlemagne. 



POEMS OF THE CITY. 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square, 

Has made three separate journeys to Paris, - 

And her father assures me, each time she was there, 

That she and her friend Mrs. Harris 

(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, 

But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) 

Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping, 

In one continuous round of shopping, — 

Shopping alone, and shopping together, 

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, 

For all manner of things that a woman can put 

On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot, 

Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, 

Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 

Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, 

In front or behind, above or below ; 

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ; 

Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; 



70 NOTHING TO WEAR. 

Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 

Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 

Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 

Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall ; — 

All of them different in color and shape, 

Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, 

Brocade and broadcloth, and other material, 

Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; 

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, 

Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, 

From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills ; 
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, 
While M'Flimseyin vain stormed, scolded, and swore, 

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills ! 

The last trip, their goods shipped by the^teamer Arago, 
Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, 
Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, 
Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, 
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, 
But for which the ladies themselves manifested 
Such particular interest, that they invested 
Their own proper persons in layers and rows 
Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 71 

Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; 
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beau- 
ties, 
Gave good by to the ship, and go by to the duties. 
Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, 
Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout 

For an actual belle and a possible bride ; 
But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, 

And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods 
beside, 
Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry, 
Had entered the port without any entry. 

And yet, though scarce three months have passed 

since the day 
This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, 
This same Miss M'Flimsey of Madison Square, 
The last time we met was in utter despair, 
Because she had nothing whatever .to wear ! 

Nothing to wear 1 Now, as this is a true ditty, 
I do not assert — this, you know, is between us — 

That she 's in a state of absolute nudity, 

Like Powers' Greek Slave or the Medici Venus ; 



72 NOTHING TO WEAK. 

But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, 
When at the same moment she had on a dress 
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, 
And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, 

That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear ! 

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's 

Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, 

I had just been selected as he who should throw 

all 
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal 
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections, 
Of those fossil remains which she called her " affec- 
tions/ 7 
And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, 
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her " heart." 
So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted, 
Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, 
But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, 
Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whispered our love. 
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, 
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, 
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, 
It was one of the quietest business transactions, 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 73 

With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, 
And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. 
On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, 
She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, 
And by way of putting me quite at my ease, 
" You know I 'm to polka as much as I please, 
And flirt when I like — now, stop, don't you speak — 
And you must not come here more than twice in the 

week, 
Or talk to me either at party or ball, 
But always be ready to come when I call ; 
So don't prose to me about duty and stuff, 
If we don't break this off, there will be time enough 
For that sort of thing ; but the bargain must be 
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, — 
For this is a kind of engagement, you see, 
Which is binding on you, but not binding on me." 

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained 

her, 
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained 

her, 
I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder 
At least in the property, and the best right 



74 NOTHING TO WEAR. 

To appear as its escort by day and by night ; 

And it being the week of the Stuckup's grand ball, — 

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, 

And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe, — 
I considered it only my duty to call, 

And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found, 
When the time intervening between the first sound 
Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter 
Than usual — I found ; I won't say — I caught her, 
Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning 
To see if perhaps it did n't need cleaning. 
She turned as I entered, — " Why, Harry, you sinner, 
I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" 
" So I did," I replied, " but the dinner is swallowed, 

And digested, I trust, for 't is now nine and more, 
So, being relieved from that duty, I followed 

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door ; 
And now will your ladyship so condescend 
As just to inform me if you intend 
Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend 
(All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) 
To the Stuckup's, whose party, you know, is to- 
morrow ? " 



NOTHING TO WEAK. 75 

The fair Flora looked up, with a pitiful air, 

And answered quite promptly, " Why, Harry, mon 

cher, 
I should like above all things to go with you there, 
But really and truly — I Ve nothing to wear." 
" Nothing to wear ! go just as you are ; 
Wear the dress you have on, and you '11 be by far, 
I engage, the most bright and particular star 

On the Stuckup horizon — " I stopped, for her eye, 
Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, 
Opened on me at once a most terrible battery 

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, 
But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose, 

(That pure Grecian feature,) as much to say, 
"How absurd that any sane man should suppose 
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, 

No matter how fine, that she wears every day ! " 

So I ventured again: " Wear your crimson brocade" ; 
(Second turn up of nose) — " That 's too dark by a 

shade." 
" Your blue silk " — " That >s too heavy." " Your 

pink " — " That 's too light." 
" Wear tulle over satin " — "I can't endure white.'' 



76 NOTHING TO WEAR. 

" Your rose-colored, then, the best of the" batch " — 

" I have n't a thread of point-lace to match." 

" Your brown moire antique " — " Yes, and look like 

a Quaker " ; 
" The pearl-colored" — "I would, but that plaguy 

dress-maker 
Has had it a week." " Then that exquisite lilac, 
In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock " ; 
(Here the nose took again the same elevation) — 
" I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." 
" Why not ? It 's my fancy, there 's nothing 

could strike it 
As more commeilfaut" — "Yes, but, dear me, that lean 

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, 
And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." 
" Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine ; 
That supurb point d' aiguille, that imperial green, 
That zephyr-like tarletan, that rich grenadine" — 
" Not one of all which is fit to be seen," 
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. 
"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite 

crushed 
Opposition, " that gorgeous toilette which you 

sported 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 77 

In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, 
When you quite turned the head of the head of the 
nation, 
And by all the grand court were so very much 

courted. " 
The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, 
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, 
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, 
" I have worn it three times, at the least calculation, 
And that and most of my dresses are ripped up ! " 
Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash, 

Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression 
More striking than classic, it " settled my hash," 

And proved very soon the last act of our session. 
" Fiddlesticks, is it, sir ? I wonder the ceiling 
Does n't fall down and crush you, — you men have 

no feeling ; 
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, 
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, 
Your silly pretence, — why, what a mere guess it 

is! 
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ? 
I have told you and shown you 1 7 ve nothing to 
wear, 



78 NOTHING TO WEAR. 

And it 's perfectly plain you not only don't care, 
But you do not believe me," (here the nose went 

still higher.) 
" I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar. 
Our engagement is ended, Sir, — yes, on the spot ; 
You 're a brute, and a monster, and — I don't know 

what." 
I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, 
Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, 
As gentle expletives which might give relief; 
But this only proved as a spark to the powder, 
And the storm I had raised came faster and louder ; 
It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and 

hailed 
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite 

failed 
To express the abusive, and then its arrears 
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, 
And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- 
Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. 

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too, 
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, 
In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay 



NOTHING TO WEAK. 79 

Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say ; 
Then, without going through the form of a bow, 
Found myself in the entry, — I hardly knew how, 
On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, 
At home and up stairs, in my own easy-chair ; 

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, 
And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, 
" Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar 

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, 
On the whole, do you think he would have much to 

spare, 
If he married a woman with nothing to wear ? " 

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be 

bruited 
Abroad in society, I've instituted 
A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, 
On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, 
That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising, 

But that there exists the greatest distress 
In our female community, solely arising 

From this unsupplied destitution of dress, 
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air 
With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to wear." 



80 NOTHING TO WEAK. 

Eesearches in some of the " Upper Ten " districts 
Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, 
Of which let me mention only a few : 
In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, 
Three young ladies were found, all below twenty- 
two, 
Who have been three whole weeks without anything 

new 
In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch 
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. 
In another large mansion, near the same place, 
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case 
Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. 
In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls, 
Total want, long continued, of camel' s-hair shawls ; 
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits 
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets ; 
One deserving young lady almost unable 
To survive for the want of a new Russian sable ; 
Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific 
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, 
In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation, 
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found con- 
solation, 



NOTHING TO WEAK. 81 

Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation,) 

But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and 

collars 
Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, 
And all as to style most recherche and rare, 
The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, 
And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic 
That she ? s quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic, 
For she touchingly says, that this sort of grief 
Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, 
And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare 
For the victims of such overwhelming despair. 
But the saddest, by far, of all these sad features 
Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures 
By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Ti- 

mons, 
Who resist the most touching appeals made for dia- 
monds 
By their wives and their daughters, and leave them 

for days 
Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, 
Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a 

chance, 
And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; 
6 



82 NOTHING TO WEAR. 

One case of a bride was brought to my view, 
Too sad for belief, but, alas ! 7 t was too true, 
Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, 
To permit her to take more than ten trunks to 

Sharon. 
The consequence was, that when she got there, 
At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, 
And when she proposed to finish the season 
At Newport, the monster refused, out and out, 
For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, 
Except that the waters were good for his gout ; 
Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, 
And proceedings are now going on for divorce. 

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain 
From these scenes of woe ? Enough, it is certain,, 
Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity 
Of every benevolent heart in the city, 
And spur up Humanity into a canter 
To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. 
Won't somebody, moved by this touching descrip- 
tion, 
Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription ? 
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 83 

So needed at once by these indigent ladies, 
Take charge of the matter ? Or won't Peter Cooper 
The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- 
Structure, like that which to-day links his name 
In the Union unending of Honor and Fame, 
And found a new charity just for the care 
Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, 
Which, in view of the cash which would daily be 

claimed, 
The Laying-out Hospital well might be named ? 
Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, 
Take a contract for clothing our wives and our 

daughters ? 
Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, 
And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and 

dresses, 
Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and 

thornier, 
Won't some one discover a new California? 

ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day 
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, 
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, 
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, 



84 NOTHING TO WEAK. 

To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt 
Their children have gathered, their city have built ; 
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, 
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ; 
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered 

skirt, 

Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt. 

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair 

To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, 

Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the 

cold ; 
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, 
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street ; 
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans 

that swell 
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the 

floor; 
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, 

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door ; 
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, — 
Spoiled children of fashion, — you've nothing to wear ! 

And 0, if perchance there should be a sphere 
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, 



NOTHING TO WEAR. 85 

Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time 
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, 
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, 
Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretence, 
Must be clothed for the life and the service above, 
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love, 
daughters of Earth ! foolish virgins, beware ! 
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear ! 

1857. 



THE SEXTON AND THE THERMOMETER. 

A building there is, well known, I conjecture, 
To all the admirers of church architecture, 
Flaunting and fine, at the bend of Broadway, 
Cathedral-like, gorgeous, and Gothic, and gay, 
Soaring sublimely, just as it should, 
With its turrets of marble, and steeple of wood, 
And windows so brilliant and polychromatic, 
Through which the light wanders with colors erratic,— 
Now, golden and red on the cushions reposes, 
Now, yellow and green on parishioners' noses ; 
While, within and without, the whole edifice glitters 
With grandeur in patches, and splendor in fritters ; 
With its parsonage "fixed " in the styleof the Tudors, 
And, by way of example to all rash intruders, 
Its solid dead wall, built up at great labor 
To cut off the windows cut out by its neighbor, — 
An apt illustration, and always in sight, 
Of the way that the Church sometimes shuts out the 
Light ! 



THE SEXTON AND THE THERMOMETER. 8) 

Now it chanced at the time of the present relation, 
Not a century back from this generation, 
When, just as in these days, the world was divided, 
And some people this way and that way decided, 
And like silly questions the public was vexed on, 
One Diggory Pink of this church was the sexton. 
None of your sextons grave, gloomy, and gruff, 
Bell-ringers, pew-openers, takers of snuff, 

Dusters of cushions and sweepers of aisles, 
But a gentleman sexton, ready enough 

For bows and good manners, sweet speeches and 
smiles ; 
A gentleman, too, of such versatility, 
In his vocation of so much agility, 
Blest with such wit and uncommon facility, 
That his sextonship rose, by the means he invented, 
To a post of importance quite unprecedented. 

No mere undertaker was he, or to make 
The statement more clear, for veracity's sake, 
There was nothing at all he did not undertake ; 
Discharging at once such a complex variety 
Of functions pertaining to genteel society, 
As gave him with every one great notoriety ; 



88 THE SEXTON AND THE THEKMOMETER. 

Blending his care of the church and the cloisters 

With funerals, fancy balls, suppers, and oysters, 

Dinners for aldermen, parties for brides, 

And a hundred and fifty arrangements besides ; 

Great as he was at a funeral, greater 

As master of feasts, purveyor, gustator, 

Little less than the host, but far more than the waiter. 

Very brisk was his business, because, in advance, 

Pink was sure of his patron whatever might chance. 

If the turtle he served agreed with him, then 

At the next entertainment he fed him again ; 

If it killed him, Pink grieved at the sudden reversal, 

But shifting his part, with a rapid rehearsal, 

With all that was richest in pall and in plumes, 

Conveyed him, in state, to the grandest of tombs. 

Thus whatever befell him, gout, fever, or cough, 

It was Pink, in reality, carried him off; 

The magical Pink, as well skilled in adorning 

The houses of feasting as houses of mourning, 

For 'twas all the same thing, on his catholic plan, 

If he laid out the money, or laid out the man. 

But most with the ladies his power was supreme, 

Of disputing his edicts nobody would dream, 

For 't was generally known that Pink kept the key 



THE SEXTON AND THE THEKMOMETEK. 89 

Of the very selectest society ; 

Parvenus bribed him to get on his list ; 

Woe to the man whom his fiat dismissed ! 

The best thing he could do was to cease to exist, 

And retire from a world where he would n't be missed. 

Thus, plying all trades, but still keeping their bal- 
ance 
By his quick, ready wit and pre-eminent talents, 
His life might present, in its manifold texture, 
An emblem quite apt of the church architecture, 
Which unites, in its grouping of sculpture and 

column, 
A great deal that 's comic with much that is solemn ! 

One Sunday, Friend Pink, who all night had been kept 

At a ball in the Avenue, quite overslept, 

And though to the church instanter he rushed, 

His breakfast untasted, his beaver unbrushed, 

He reached it so late that he barely had time 

To kindle the fires, when a neighboring chime 

(For His thus that all church-bells must figure in 

rhyme) 
Proclaimed that the hour for the service was near ; 



90 THE SEXTON AND THE THERMOMETER. 

And, as ill luck would have it, though sunny and clear, 
'Twas the coldest of all the cold days in the year. 

Poor Pink, if some artist, with pencil or pen, 
Had been on the spot to sketch him just then, 
As bewilderment drove him first here and then there, 
From chancel and transept to gallery stair, 
Now down in the vaults, and now out in the air, 
Might have stood as a model of Utter Despair, 
Whose crowning expression his countenance wore 
As he paused, for a moment, within the grand door, 
And glanced at a gentleman, portly and neat, 
Advancing quite leisurely up from Tenth Street. 
" Mr. Foldrum is coming ; oh ! what shall I do ? 
He 's got a Thermometer hung in his pew ! 
As sure as it 's there, and the mercury in it, 
He '11 find what the temperature is in a minute ; 
And being a vestryman, is n't it clear 
That minute will cost me a thousand a year ? " 

But luck, luck, wonderful luck ! 
Which never deserts men of genuine pluck, 
No matter how deep in the mire they are stuck, 
In this very crisis of trouble and pain, 
With a brilliant idea illumined his brain ; 



THE SEXTON AND THE THEEMOMETER. 91 

Down the aisle, like a cannon-ball, Diggory flew, 
Snatched the thermometer out of the pew, 
And then plunged it, bodily, into the fire 
Of the nearest furnace, just by the choir ; 
Soon to 100 the mercury rose, 
And Pink, stealing quietly back on tiptoes, 
Hung it up stealthily, on the brass nail, 
Just as Foldrum was entering, under full sail. 

The church was as chilly and cold and cavernous 
As the regions of ice round the shores of Avernus ; 
Like icebergs, pilasters and columns were gleaming, 
While pendants and mouldings seemed icicles 

streaming. 
Foldrum shivered all over, and really looked blue, 
As he opened the door and went into his pew, 
Then clapping his spectacles firmly his nose on, 
Took down the thermometer, surely supposing 
The glass would be cracked and the mercury frozen. 

No such thing at all ; but, surprising to view, 

The mercury stood at 12 ! 

It had never deceived him, that great regulator, 
Not once to the atmosphere proved itself traitor ; 



92 THE SEXTON AND THE THERMOMETER. 

Had it fallen to zero on the equator, 

He had shivered all over and doubted it not ; 
Or if, upon Greenland's iciest shore, 
It had happened to rise to 80, or more, 

Had thrown off his bearskin and sworn it was hot. 

« 

" Place me," might he cry, with the poet of old, 
" In the hottest of heat or the coldest of cold, 
On Lybian sands, or Siberian barren height; 
You never shall shake my faith in my Fahrenheit ! " 

? T was charming to see, then, (Pink watched hira 

with care,) 
What a wonderful change came over his air, — 
How he rubbed both his hands, and a genial glow 
Came flooding his cheeks like a sunbeam on snow ; 
How quickly he doffed both his scarf and his coat, 
Unbuttoned his waistcoat down from the throat, 
And stifling a sort of shiver spasmodic, 
With assumptions of warmth, very clear and methodic, 
And with all sorts of genial and satisfied motions, 
With fervor engaged in his usual devotions. 
Just then enter Doldrum, 
Who sits behind Foldrum, 
And gauges himself, from beginning to end 



THE SEXTON AND THE THERMOMETER. 93 

Of the year, by his old thermometrical friend, 
Well knowing that he takes his practical cue 
From the mercury, hanging up there in his pew, 
And can't make the mistakes that some people do. 
So off goes his pilot-cloth, spite of the cold or 
A twinge of rheumatics in his left shoulder ; 
'T was freezing, 't was dreadful, it must be confessed, 
But there sat Squire Foldrum, who surely knew best, 
With his overcoat off and an unbuttoned vest ! 
What 's mercury made for, except by its ranges 
To declare, without fail, atmospherical changes ? 

At the door the friends met. " Cold in church, was 

it not?" 
Says Doldrum. " no ! on the contrary, hot ; 
Thermometer TO ; with these high ceilings 
You must go by the mercury, — can't trust your 

feelings. 
Take a glass, after dinner, of Old Bourbon whiskey, 
Nothing like it to keep the blood active and frisky, 
If your 're cold, but the air was quite spring-like 

and mellow ; 
Why, Doldrum, you 're growing old fast, my dear 

fellow ! " 



94 THE SEXTON AND THE THERMOMETER. 

But on Tuesday the joke was all over the town ; 

Pink enjoyed it so much that he noted it down, 

And, thinking it should n't be laid on the shelf, 

At the risk of his place, he told it himself 

To one of the vestry, to use at discretion ; 

And in very short time ? t was in public possession. 

Foldrum heard of it, too ; saw how it was done, 

And felt that he owed the sexton one. 

Next Sunday he paid him. " Pink," said he, 

" I owe you a dollar ; here, take your fee." 

" A dollar, sir? no, sir ; what for, if you please ? " 

tt p or ra i s i n g ^ e mercury forty degrees ! 

Extra service like this deserves extra pay, 

Especially done, as this was, on Sunday. 

So pocket the cash, without further remark, 

But, Pink, for the future, just mind and keep dark." 

" Thank you, sir," said the sexton ; " I 'm not a dull 

scholar, 
So, if you take the joke, why, I '11 take the dollar ! " 



BROADWAY. 

On this day of brightest dawning, 
Underneath each spreading awning, 

Sheltered from the sun's fierce ray, 
Come, and let us saunter gayly 
With the crowd whose footsteps, daily, 

Wear the sidewalks of Broadway. 

Leave the proof-sheets and the printer 
Till the duller days of winter, 

Till some dark December day ; 
Better than your lucubrations 
Are the vivid inspirations 

You can gather in Broadway ! 

Tell me not, in half-derision, 
Of your Boulevards Parisian, 
With their brilliant broad paves, 



96 BROADWAY. 

Still for us the best is nearest, 
And the last love is the dearest, 

And the Queen of Streets, — Broadway ! 

Here, beneath bewitching bonnets, 
Sparkle eyes to kindle sonnets, 

Charms, each worth a lyric lay ; 
Ah ! what bright, untold romances 
Linger in the radiant glances 

Of the beauties of Broadway ! 

All the fairer, that so fleeting 
Is the momentary meeting, 

That our footsteps may not stay ; 
While, each passing form replacing, 
Swift the waves of life are chasing 

Down the channels of Broadway ! 

Motley as the masqueraders 
Are the jostling promenaders, 

In their varied, strange display ; 
Here an instant, only, blending, 
Whither are their footsteps tending 

As they hasten through Broadway ? 



BEOADWAY. 97 

Some to garrets and to cellars, 
Crowded with unhappy dwellers ; 

Some to mansions, rich and gay, 
Where the evening's mirth and pleasure 
Shall be fuller, in their measure, 

Than the turmoil of Broadway ! 

Yet were once our mortal vision 
Blest with quicker intuition, 

We should shudder with dismay 
To behold what shapes are haunting 
Some, who seem most gayly flaunting, 

On the sidewalks of Broadway ! 

For, beside the beggar cheerless, 
And the maiden gay and fearless, 

And the old man worn and gray, 
Swift and viewless, waiting never, 
Still the Fates are gliding ever, 

Stern and silent, through Broadway ! 



THE EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF WASHINGTON. 

"Finis coronat opus." 

Well done ! The statue, on its base of granite, 
Stands in the sunlight, perfect and complete, 

And like a visitor from some strange planet, 
Curbing his steed beside the crowded street, 

A million curious eyes already scan it, 

And, with delighted gaze, its advent greet. 

The end has crowned the work ; the high endeavor, 
And the long toil, with full success are blest ; 

And while the city stands, henceforth, forever, 
Firm as to-day this noble form shall rest, 

Nor shall the hand of Time or Violence sever 
Its strength and beauty from that granite crest. 

It is well placed ; the tide of life, incessant, 
With ceaseless echoes, like the mighty voice 

Of many waters, sweeps the spacious crescent, 
Where, grand and calm, above the stir and noise, 



THE EQUESTKIAN STATUE OF WASHINGTON. 99 

A fitting type of duty ever present, 

It keeps, unmoved, its graceful equipoise. 

Alike through storm and sunshine ; when the torrid, 
Untempered rays of summer fiercely smite, 

Or the first snow-flakes crown the ample forehead, 
And wrap the figure in their robe of white, 

Or wintry tempests, with forebodings horrid 
Of distant shipwreck, fill the black midnight. 

Be thus perpetual ! with the consecration 
Of art, and memory, and hopes that warm 

With future glories for each generation, 

Keep still, unchanged, the same majestic form, 

And, through all tempests that may shake the nation, 
Still sit supremely, and survive the storm ! 



TWO MILLIONS. 



[This Poem, delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Yale College, and 
published in 1858, has been revised, and in part rewritten, with a view to its 
condensation and the correction of some errors of versification.] 



Firkin was worth Two Millions ; solid gold ! 

This pleasing tale his inventory told ; 

Two solid millions, everybody said it ; 

Was not his name a shining orb of credit ? 

Was not his praise in every city bank ? 

Was he not foremost, in the foremost rank 

Of Merchant Princes, that resplendent host, 

The Empire City's proud, imperial boast, 

Her veteran guard, whose brilliant cash advances, 

Not with fixed bayonets and bristling lances, 

But with sharp bargains and keen speculations, 

Carry her eagles to remotest nations ; 

Bolder than ever Templars or Crusaders, 

They sweep the distant seas, these daring traders ; 



TWO MILLIONS. 101 

Than fabled Argonauts, or classic Caesars, 

They grasp the world, these modern Grolden-Fleecers ! 

Think not in this last line my Muse evinces 
A narrow disesteem of merchant princes. 
There are whose hearts are large and frank and loyal, 
Whose human nature, like their wealth, is royal ; 
In whose free hands the glittering, dangerous dust 
Is not mere money, but a sacred trust ; 
Long may we keep their true, untainted line, 
Such men are princes, by a right Divine. 
Such was not Firkin. In his principality, 
Worse than high treason was all liberality ; 
No ray of bounty, with unselfish cheer, 
Threw its bright beam across that dark frontier, 
Where every friendly grace of heart or hand 
Was seized and forfeited as contraband. 
You read it in his eye, dull, dark, and stern, 
Which clutched the light, but grudged a kind return, 
In genial glances, through the open day, 
And with a shrewd suspicion turned away. 
His portly figure, with its solvent air, 
Proclaimed, to all the world, the millionnaire, 
His purse and person, both at fullest length, 



102 TWO MILLIONS. 

And spoke the law which all his being swayed, 
With all his heart and sonl and mind and strength, 
To love his maker, for he was self-made ! 
Self-made, self-trained, self-willed, self-satisfied, 
He was, himself, his daily boast and pride ; 
His wealth was all his own ; had he not won it 
With his own craft and skill ? There shone upon it 
No grateful memories of another's toil, 
No flowers of friendship graced its sterile soil, 
No ties ancestral linked it with the past, 
As in his hard, close hands he held it fast. 

I cannot trace the Firkin lineage, 
Nor graft the family-tree upon my page ; 
; T was like those tropic plants which Nature shoots 
Into mid-air, without the aid of roots, 
Whose swelling tumors, as they spread and mount, 
Grow rank and flourish on their own account. 
Some caustic hints had scandal whispered, since 
He grew to wealth, about our merchant prince 
And his first efforts in the packing line, 
In which, like Yenus, he had sprung from brine ! 
Wise is the child, we say, who knows his father, 
A musty proverb, as he thought, for, rather, 



TWO MILLIONS. 103 

Wiser for him if he could but ignore him, 

And all the long, low line that went before him. 

For Firkin could not bear to be in debt 

To anybody, even for existence, 

And on the social ladder when he set 

His foot, disdained an ancestor's assistance. 

Not such dry bones, but his successful chase 

Of solid fortune, was his ground of title ; 

He was the net proceeds of all his race, 

And his two millions were his just requital. 

Why, in the ledgers of ancestral pride, 

Reckon the items on the debit side ? 

Time's rapid finger should the line descend, 

And foot the credit at the final end ! 

His creed was simple as a creed could be, 
Firkin believed in things that he could see ; 
Things that were palpable to sight and touch* 
That he could measure by the test " how much," 
And grasp, securely, in his mental clutch. 
He had a lively faith in the five senses, 
They never cheated him with false pretences, 
Nor put him off to doubtful evidences ; 
These and his mother-wit were all his light, — 



104 TWO MILLIONS. 

What could be safer than to walk by sight ? 
Such were the fiscal lights, in whose clear ray- 
He could divide the universe, straightway, 
Into the things that would and would not pay. 
By these he steered through all the straits of trade, 
Where something must be risked, or nothing made ; 
These oft through Wall Street, with its reefs and rocks, 
And phantom ventures, launched from fancy stocks, 
Had brought him safe from many a hazard rash, 
His compass, — caution ; and his pole-star, — cash ! 
And now, grown rich, these guided him, at will, 
In the smooth channels, by the waters still, 
Of safe investment, both in real estate, 
At points not likely to depreciate, 
And bond and mortgage, or, his greater favorite, 
Because it had a spice of risk to flavor it, 
The quiet purchase, at the market rate, 
Of first-class paper, such as brokers bait 
Their largest hooks with, when they lie in wait, 
With every tempting minnow, fly, and snare, 
For that shy fish, the speckled millionnaire, 
Who loves the shade, but, if that way it floats, 
Eisks a sly nibble at a batch of notes ; 
Firkin, shrewd fellow, with his sharpened sight, 



TWO MILLIONS. 105 

Knew when precisely, and when not, to bite ; 

Lay in the dark, with his usurious eye, 

Until some choice indorser happened by, 

Or plump acceptor, and then took the fly. 

Thus active practice kept his faith alive, 

Faith in himself and in the senses five, 

The almighty dollar, and its powers incessant, 

In ready money and a paying present ; 

However fair, he trusted no futurity 

Which could not give collateral security. 

Some men, he knew, believed, at least professed, 

Faith in hereafters, which they dimly guessed ; 

The substance, he preferred, of things possessed ! 

And yet he seemed devout ; without much search, 
You might have found, on any Sunday morning, 
His visible coach, outside the visible church, 
With green and gold its sacred front adorning. 
A gorgeous coachman, somewhat flushed with sherry, 
A footman, portly with perpetual dinners, 
Waited, while Firkin in the sanctuary, 
With many other " miserable sinners/' 
Cushioned the carnal man in drowsy pews, 
Dozed over gilt-edged rubric, prayer and psalter, 



106 TWO MILLIONS. 

Eose with the music, looked, with liberal views, 
On prima donnas, never known to falter, 
In chant or solo, hymn, or anthem splendid, 
And still enchanting when the chant was ended ; 
Then sat or knelt, grave as the altar bronzes, 
And went through all the usual responses. 
Those solemn prayers, those litanies sublime, 
The ancient Church first taught the lips of Time, 
Thenceforth to sound forever, — as when first, 
Flooded with light, the lips of Memnon burst 
From their cold stillness, and rejoicing, gave, 
Back to the flood of day, its tide upborne 
Of rarest harmony, wave answering wave, 
Deep calling unto deep, music to morn ! 
Those lofty chants, first echoed under domes 
Of starry midnight, or in catacombs 
Where, by rude altars and sepulchral tombs, 
Deep in the rocky earth, the vestal choirs 
Rehearsed their music for the martyr fires, 
Now swelled from lips of people or of priest, 
To fall on Firkin's ear without the least 
Responsive utterance, or the faintest notion 
That they had any reference to devotion. 
He liked the service, but, I grieve to state, 



TWO MILLIONS. 107 

If it had been, instead, a service of plate, 

He could have given a better estimate 

Of its real value ; for in truth our hero, 

As to religious feeling, stood at zero. 

And had it chanced the universal Church, 

In solid phalanx, without break or schism, 

Had, on a sudden, with a backward lurch, 

Lapsed, through a thousand years, to Judaism, 

Or from the Christian plunged into the Pagan, 

And on its altars set up Jove or Dagon, — 

Firkin would still have worshipped with the crowd, 

And at the newest shrine devoutly bowed, 

Still offered up his weekly stint of praise, 

In heathen darkness, or the Gospel's blaze, 

With incense, or burnt-offerings, or libations, 

Alike unconscious of the innovations, 

Save that he might, perhaps, in Wall Street phrase, 

Have noticed a slight change in the quotations I 

In sober truth, religion he regarded 

An institution, not to be discarded, 

Of no great use in time, yet who shall say 

But some new sphere may bring it into play ? 

Therefore he gave it half a day in seven, 

'T was well to keep on speaking terms with heaven. 



108 TWO MILLIONS. 

Let the priests wrangle, in their long debates, 

Of doctrines, dogmas, destinies, and dates, 

He cared for none of these ; nothing to him, 

Their dull disputes and superstitions dim, 

They neither charmed his sense, nor could they 

shock it, 
They never put a dollar in his pocket, 
(And very rarely took a dollar out, 
As all the charities can vouch, no doubt. ) 
He never cared to vex himself about them, 
He got along so very well without them ; 
From Genesis straight on to Revelation, 
He could dispense with every Dispensation ! 

You may imagine that the philanthropic 
Was not with him a very favorite topic ; 
One test he meted to the sons of Time, — 
Success was virtue, poverty was crime. 
He who had failed in life's scrub-race to win 
Was justly punished for his mortal sin. 
Wealth was man's normal state, its loss because 
The losers violated nature's laws, 
And chose to live their vicious, bankrupt lives, 
In spite of ants and beavers and beehives, 



TWO MILLIONS. 109 

And other bright examples, by all which 

She showed them clearly how they might grow rich. 

Therefore 7 t was plain as any church or steeple, 

That every scheme for aiding these poor people 

Was with the worst of vices a connivance ; 

He turned with horror from the base contrivance. 

This was his only theory to repress 

The social evils, and their wrongs redress, 

Save that in current cases of distress, 

From paupers, as from pestilence, he shrank, 

Upon the virtuous notion that " they drank ! " 

The newest way to Christianize barbarity, 

And whip in Temperance as a foe to Charity ! 

His politics, like some domestic prints, 
Took the safe color of the neutral tints ; 
He asked but this of Law or Legislation, 
The most protection with the least taxation. 
As for the rest, his hate was warm and hearty 
Against all politicians and each party. 
Voters were cat's-paws, platforms were deceits, 
Leaders were rogues, and candidates were cheats ; 
No club nor council held him in communion, 
Nor doubtful canvass lured him to a bet, 



110 TWO MILLIONS. 

And all the glories of the rescued Union, 

Tried in his balance, scarce outweighed the debt ! 

Firkin was childless. In his earlier life, 
He had possessed that useful thing, a wife ; 
But failing to keep pace with his swift stride, 
In the hot dash at fortune, by his side, 
Long since she faltered, faded, drooped, and died. 
He kept his vow to cherish and to love her, 
By building a great granite tomb above her, 
Which, to the world, his wedded virtues told, 
Just like them too, stiff, hollow, and stone-cold ! 
She never knew a mother's tender duty, 
Or else, perchance, its pure, fresh warmth and beauty 
Her wasted heart with a new glow had fired, 
And with a sacred strength her life inspired ; 
But, in her worse than widowhood, exiled, 
Had taken to her heart an orphan child, 
A daughter, by adoption, upon whom, 
After his spouse lay shrined within her tomb, 
Firkin himself complacently had glanced, 
And, step by step, had cautiously advanced, 
Until she ruled his household ; for his keen, 
Sagacious foresight in the girl had seen 



TWO MILLIONS. Ill 

A quick, bright spirit, fitted for command, 
And, for his own convenience, he had planned 
That he would be her guardian and protector 
Till he could wed her to a bank director. 

She was a fair, New England maiden, born, 
Not where broad fields of yellow wheat and corn, 
Through sunlit valleys, wave and gayly tinge 
The quiet homesteads with their golden fringe, 
While nature blends their warm and genial flush 
With girlhood's budding glow and virgin blush ; 
Nor on the hillsides of the distant North, 
Where, from the unfenced forests gushing forth, 
O'er rocky beds, sweep the swift mountain streams, 
Whose sparkling torrent, as it leaps and gleams, 
Is kindred to the keener flash that beams 
From laughing eyes on pure unsullied faces, 
While, like the Naiads, crowned with fabled graces, 
They haunt and gladden those dark maple shades, 
Our fairer wood-nymphs, the Green Mountain maids ! 
But on the eastern shore, where the waves break 
On rocky headlands, and the night-winds wake 
The mournful echoes of the forest pines, 
Which stretch along the coast their dreary lines ; 



112 TWO MILLIONS. 

And the sea-breezes, as they come and go, 
On beauty's cheek have left a deeper glow, 
And the eye kindles like some far-off ship, 
Struck with a sudden sunbeam, and the lip 
Wears the sad smile of those whose calmer moods 
Are nursed by ocean sands and solitudes ! 

Such was this Rachel ; and her nature kept 
Part of this early grace and seaside health, 
In the spoiled city ; in her heart they slept, 
And woke, sometimes half conscious, half by stealth, 
In sudden pauses, a calm undertone 
Heard by no other ear, scarce by her own, 
Nerving the soul which drew its life and love 
And sense of beauty from a source above 
The mirror's polished surface, or the date 
Of the last mode, or newest fashion-plate. 
Firkin himself could never understand 
If he or she had gained the upper hand, 
In the incessant skirmish and sword-play 
Their spirits waged together for the sway 
Over each other's will ; for in the sphere 
Where woman's sense and wit are strong and clear, 
In the wide circuit of the heart's dominions, 



TWO MILLIONS. 113 

She had and claimed and kept her own opinions, 

Till he began to hate her, and one day, 

When she had given heart and hand away, 

Against his oft-repeated, stern denial, 

And brought his feeling to the final trial, 

He threw her off, as lightly as the flower 

Which in his buttonhole had bloomed an hour, 

Placed by her hand, perhaps, on some May morning ; 

The blow was struck without a moment's warning ; 

No present pity ; for the past no thanks ; 

And quite forgetting all that bland urbanity 

Which so distinguished him in down-town banks, 

With its descent, he mingled such profanity 

As to a listener might perchance evince 

A prince of darkness, not a merchant prince ! 

He banished her, and then, in purest spite, 
And to foreclose forgiveness, the same night 
Wrote to his native town for half a score 
Of distant relatives, to fill her place ; 
They came, post haste, the invited ones and more, 
A swift invasion of the Firkin race, 
Thrifty and sly to watch and lie in wait, 
And peep and pry around his great estate. 
8 



114 TWO MILLIONS. 

To lay their plans and strategems and traps, 
And nurse, with hope, each vagrant, chance " per- 
haps ! " 
They felt his pulse when he was sound asleep, 
Wondered how long the vital spark would keep, 
And calculated by insurance tables, 
Those cunningly devised financial fables, 
With long divisions, addings, and subtraction, 
The value of his life, down to a fraction. 
This ante-mortem sly examination 
Would have annoyed its subject, without doubt, 
If e'er by word, or act, or penetration, 
Sooner or later, he had found them out ; 
But he dreamed not a soul within his portal 
Harbored the thought that he was not immortal, 
At least if so he pleased ; with equal sense 
They might have doubted his omnipotence ! 

Rachel was married, and, to tell the truth, 
It was a foolish match ; for Love and Youth, 
In forming their copartnerships, are rash, 
Unless they have that special partner, Cash ! 
Love came with grace and beauty as her dower, 
And Youth with lofty hopes and dreams of power ; 



TWO MILLIONS. 115 

But on the wedding-day, ere that rapt hour 

Of plighted vows had grown a moment older, 

The Husband tapped the Lover on the shoulder, 

Like a detective, with the frowning threat 

Of present want of means and future debt. 

For though his aims were high, and pure and sunny, 

He had no faculty for making money, — 

That pocket compass by which Dulness steers 

Its steady course to wealth, through all the years, 

While Genius, gazing at the stars, is tost 

On trackless billows, founders, and is lost. 

We sometimes ask, Why is it Nature pours 

Into such leaden caskets such rich stores ? 

And, in our wisdom, blame and criticise her ; 

We may be wise, but Nature is much wiser ; 

She, in the coarser, heavier, baser mould 

Of human being runs her molten gold, 

While higher spirits for herself she chooses, 

And shapes and fashions to her finer uses ! 

But Rachel's husband, for his purse, alas ! 

Was one of the fine, brilliant, useless class. 

His aims were glorious and his thoughts intense, 

He wanted nothing — except common sense ; 

Could plan new worlds without the least misgiving, 



116 TWO MILLIONS. 

But in this planet could not earn a living. 
The splendid purposes and lofty schemes 
In which he wasted life with golden dreams 
Might, in Utopia, have made him lord 
Of the ascendant, but they paid no board, 
Washing, or lodging in the Eighteenth Ward. 
In vain for him the callings and professions 
By which men mount to honors and possessions, 
Their solid substance his weak grasp eluded, 
And still he stood, despondent and deluded, 
Upon the brink of Fortune, while her tide 
Ebbed fast away, as there, in aimless pride ; 
He lingered, musing, to his doubts a slave, 
While others boldly dashed into the wave, 
Dived where the breakers tossed, with frantic whirl, 
And, through the rocks and quicksands, grasped the 
pearl. 

He might have saved a moderate patrimony, 
(Sufficient even after matrimony, ) 
But, like all men of quick imagination, 
He had a lingering love of speculation ; 
A fancy for those airy, brilliant bubbles 
By which the wealth of Wall Street daily doubles ; 



TWO MILLIONS. 117 

A fatal fondness for those works of art, 

Which, by the thousand, into being start, 

With their fine lines and delicate vignettes, 

Putting the very best face upon the debts 

Of corporate bodies, which, as we all know, 

Thrive for the most part upon what they owe ! 

Castles in thinnest air, chateaus in Spain, 

Dreams of swift fortune, filled and fired his brain, 

Lured by each specious scheme, and when, in vain, 

Subscription on subscription had been heaped, 

Share after share of stock, and nothing reaped, 

Upon one fatal morn, he chanced to see 

The circular of the Gold Swamp Company, 

Of which the money articles all said 

It was a certain project ; for its head 

Was Firkin, foremost among millionnaires, 

Who had just taken twenty thousand shares. 

" Here," cried our unsuccessful friend, " at least, 

Success is sure as sunrise in the east." 

So he bought in, invested all he had, 

And as the shares soon trebled and quadrupled, 

With the hot fever of success run mad 

He lost his mental equipoise, nor scrupled 

To borrow where he could, and still to buy, 



118 TWO MILLIONS. 

For fact was fact, and figures could not lie. 

Two months the bubble glittered, then, one morning, 

Shrivelled and burst, without a moment's warning. 

A grand catastrophe ! The great Gold Swamp, 

Inaugurated, with such pride and pomp, 

Only six weeks before, by an excursion, 

Of which we all perused the pleasing version ; 

A splendid dinner, at which General Diddle 

Headed the board (a model in the middle, 

Of the Gold Swamp and neighboring morasses, 

Splendidly done in sugar and molasses), 

Supported by a score of Peter Funks, 

Of the mock mining stamp, who deal in chunks 

Of confidence ores and metals, as examples, 

And sell the bowels of the earth by samples ! 

A brilliant festival, and when, quite late, 

The engineer, Twobottles, rose to state 

The Swamp was yielding at the fabulous rate 

Of twenty millions monthly, the whole table, 

With cheers and tigers, was a perfect Babel. 

The Swamp, I say, though dressed in such bright 

raiment 
Of hope and promise, failed, suspended payment, 
Gave up its golden issues, and the news, 



TWO MILLIONS. 119 

Which served a day the city to amuse, 
Was soon abroad, that never, for one minute, 
Had it contained a pennyweight of gold, 
Save what had very slyly been put in it 
By a smart brace of brokers, keen and bold, 
For a new Fancy, and some plump amounts 
With which to fatten their slim bank accounts. 
Firkin, the rumor also got about, 
With his unerring prudence, had sold out, 
The day of the excursion, when the shares 
Ruled at the highest point ; and the affairs 
Taking just then a dubious situation, 
He, with a burst of virtuous indignation, 
Resigned at once the Presidential station ! 

This was the final blow. The poor stockholder, 
Stunned by the crash, which even upon bolder, 
Less shrinking souls, had come with crushing weight, 
Struggled no longer with his adverse fate. 
Two years of light and shade had quickly flown, 
Since he and Rachel stood within the zone 
Of wedded life, and, although overcast 
By frowning fortunes, still, through all their past, 
Such golden memories flashed, as when the heat, 



120 TWO MILLIONS. 

Sometimes in summer, in its fervid throe, 

Behind the heavy clouds, will throb and beat, 

And flood the darkness with its tender glow. 

But now the present sorrow wore no face 

Of hope or pity ; from his own disgrace 

He shrank, with shattered reason ; with the wild 

And desperate agony, struggling, for a space, 

Cast frenzied glances on his wife and child ; 

Sank in a sad oblivion of will, 

And thought and sense and sight and being, till 

Gently and calmly, on an autumn day, 

He loosed his grasp of life and passed away. 



II. 



Where should she go ? How, from the solid 
spheres, 
Hew out the fortune he had failed to carve ? 
A timid woman, trembling and in tears, 
The world was all before her, — where to starve ! 

world, which never yet, with all its wit, 
In any clever moment chanced to hit, 
In its Malthusian theories of man, 



TWO MILLIONS. 121 

Or other muddy shoals quack sages vex 

With turbid splashings, upon any plan 

For getting rid of this unhappy sex ! 

Still, still they haunt us, at all times and places, 

These trembling shapes and pale, imploring faces ; 

Still, still they plead by every tender tie, 

For help and pity as we pass them by, 

Or dole the pittance which we give and grudge, 

Or thrust them back, with cruel hands, to drudge 

In the scant spaces where we hem them in, 

With metes and bounds of sex and caste, and then 

Brand their impatience as a shame and sin, 

And wicked trespass on the rights of men ; 

In our cold wisdom harsher than the Turk, 

He shuts them up for pleasure, we for work ! 

Thus in her widowhood, a prisoner, 

In all the earth there was no place for her. 

She was a lady once ; there was the rub ; 

She had no heart to beg, no strength to scrub, 

Or earn days' wages at the washing-tub ; 

And when she looked, as many a sorrowing one, 

Before and since, with tearful eye has done, 

Down the sole path where chance of gain was growing, 



122 TWO MILLIONS. 

That charming' view, a lifetime of plain sewing, 
She found that all its fascinating scenery 
Was quite cut up and ruined by machinery ! 
Just as the rapid rattle on the rail 
Destroys the calm of some secluded vale. 
She saw the new invention's tiny shaft, 
As in its nimble task it plied and ticked, 
It seemed as if the wicked minion laughed 
At the slow thimble, and the fingers pricked 
With weary stitches, and cried out in glee, 
Give up the race, who can compete with me ? 
The seamstress sinks before the patentee ! 

She looked for help to her own sex, to those 
Strong-minded women who have come to blows 
With all mankind, and publish their intentions 
In fierce debates and furious conventions ; 
To one of these she went, and sat and wondered, 
As the Olympian Junos stormed and thundered ; 
It was exciting, but the heated place 
Threw not a ray of light upon her case. 
She did not long to cut the social throat ; 
She did not want two husbands or one vote ; 
Or to discard her gentle woman's nature, 



TWO MILLIONS. 123 

For any seat in any Legislature. 

She asked for nothing which they sought to give ; 

No, what she craved was but a chance to live, 

A seat at Nature's table, and a share 

In human sympathy and love and care. 

Poor child ! she found the march of Woman's Rights 

Is not for her who suffers, but who fights ; 

And the loud war-cry, in its foremost van, 

Not Love to Woman, but Revenge on Man 

At last, when Hunger snapped the thread of Pride, 
She went to Firkin ; in the world beside 
She had no other hope, nor was this hope, 
But the last glimmering ray by which to grope 
Along the way which led, she knew not where, 
Through the untrodden midnight of despair. 
She sought him at his house, that lofty pile, 
Built on the Avenue, in the latest style 
Of merchant princes, grand, grotesque, and florid, 
Out of the finest freestone ever quarried. 
In its erection, as he oft declared 
To wondering visitors, no expense was spared, 
And had he said, no style of architecture, 
'T would have been truer still, we may conjecture. 



124 TWO MILLIONS. 

The builders, with their taste so fine and funny, 

Laid themselves out, as well as Firkin's money, 

And in a way that beggars all description 

Blended Corinthian, Gothic, and Egyptian, 

And other famous styles, with classic rarities, 

In one grand jumble of brown-stone vulgarities. 

7 T was bad enough outside, but once within, 

It was like probing, deeper than the skin, 

Some mammoth fester, such its tainted mixtures 

Of decorations, furniture, and fixtures. 

It seemed as if a bombshell, charged and loaded 

With paint, and gilt, and plaster, had exploded, 

Without regard to anybody's feelings, 

On walls and columns, cornices and ceilings. 

The ambitious plasterers had eclipsed the builders, 

And, in their turn, were outdone by the gilders ; 

The painters then, beside whose rich adorning 

The brightest rainbow would have seemed deep 

mourning ; 
From lowest basement up to topmost attic 
The whole was gorgeous, glaring, and prismatic ; 
Panelled and kalsomined, and striped, and starred, 
Paint by the bucket, frescos by the yard, 
Laid on, in thickest layers, by battalions 



TWO MILLIONS. 125 

Of exiled Red Republican Italians ! 

With pots and brushes, blues and greens and yellows, 

They scaled the walls, — the bold, designing fellows, — 

And took the house by storm with their mythology, 

Fruits, flowers, flamingoes, landscapes, and zoology ; 

Then following up the grand Two-Million plan, 

Where paint left off, upholstery began ; 

The latest artist at fresh marvels aims, 

Acres of mirrors in prodigious frames, 

And miles of damask, spread in rich expansion 

Of gilt and crimson, through the costly mansion ; 

Resplendent carpets, which outstared the ceiling, 

With flaming hues that set the brain to reeling, 

And with the walls in one fierce blaze united ; 

0, what a sight, when all the gas was lighted, 

And Firkin, seated with some fellow-snob, 

Surveyed the scene, beneath the brilliant streamers, 

Declared the parlors were " a splendid job, 

Unrivalled even by saloons or steamers ! " 

Each echoing back the truthful observation, 

" There 's nothing like it in the whole creation ! " 

Here our poor widow sought the millionnaire, 
But little knew with what inveterate care 



126 TWO MILLIONS. 

His doors were bolted against all descriptions 

Of paupers, agents, circulars, and subscriptions. 

Her famine-stricken state at once detected, 

By the smart footman, she was first inspected, 

And, that the infection might no farther go, 

He quarantined her in the portico. 

Then, as there was no way of fumigation 

By which to disinfect a poor relation, 

Firkin gave orders she should be suppressed. 

He sent a dollar, with the curt request 

She would not call again, and the suggestion, 

That it appeared to him, beyond all question, 

She ought to try her fortune in the West ! 

She took the money, wished it had been more, 

For her child's sake, then turned and left the door ; 

Upon the marble threshold, from her feet, 

Shook off the dust, then shrank to her retreat, 

A distant garret, where her tears and prayers 

Climbed, with her aching feet, those weary stairs ! 



TWO MILLIONS. 127 



III. 



It was a summer's day in winter, one 
Of those rare noontides when the distant Sun 
Sees the fair Earth all dressed in virgin snow, 
And woos her beauty with a warmer glow. 
Firkin bethought him that he owned a row 
Of tenement-houses, taken for a debt, 
From which his tardy agent failed to get 
The total monthly score of rent betimes. 
" I '11 go," he thought, " and oust him for his crimes, 
Thus save his wages and increase the rent ; 
The houses yield me barely ten per cent ! " 

The Tenement-House, o'er which, with friendly hand, 
Modern Improvement waves no magic wand, 
With half-cracked walls and windows all askew, 
Stamped with the blight of beggary through and 

through, 
Lintel and door-post sprinkled with its sign, 
House after house, extends the dismal line ! 
A dreary sight to philanthropic eyes, 



128 TWO MILLIONS. 

Between the gutter and the distant skies, 

By filth and noisome odors marked and tracked, 

Through the dense districts where the poor are 

packed, 
Crowded and swarming in those wretched hives, 
Layer on layer of cheap human lives ! 
Or, if you think the picture overdone, 
Go for yourself, if you have never gone ; 
Go in midwinter, when the drifting sleet 
Through the bare hall pursues your freezing feet, 
And, as from room to room you hurry past, 
The crazy building rattling in the blast, 
At doors ajar gaunt faces peep and glare, 
In hopes some friendly step may linger there. 
Go in midsummer, when the August rays 
Pour on the place their fierce, untempered blaze ; 
From the scorched pavement to the sun-struck eaves, 
No point of shade the flaming mass relieves ; 
And the hot air, with rank and poisoned breath, 
Through doors and windows puffs disease and death. 
Or go as Firkin went, on some bright day, 
When all without glows in the cheerful ray ; 
And, as your footsteps cross the mouldering sill, 
Feel the cold dampness and the sudden chill 



TWO MILLIONS. 129 

Strike through your shivering sense with omens ill : 

He felt it not, through all the livelong year, 

He walked, encircled by an atmosphere, 

Filtered and rarefied to that degree 

By his Two-Million power of solvency, 

That such impressions had no power of stealing 

Into his icy vacuum of feeling ; 

No squalid sights disturbed his calm repose, 

Nor pity reached him even through his nose ! 

He gained the house, entered with stately air, 

Sought the delinquent agent everywhere, 

In vain ; then mounted, while each conscious stair 

Creaked with the burden of the millionnaire, 

From loft to loft, up to the topmost floor ; 

Here paused for breath, when, suddenly, a door, 

Blown by a vagrant gust, wide open flew, 

And in that garret chamber, as he turned, 

On the bare boards, before his startled view, 

She stood disclosed, — the hated and the spurned ! 

There, face to face, they stood ; a breathless second, 
Looked at each other ; then she sternly beckoned ; 
There was a lightning flash within her eye, 
There was a speaking grandeur in her form, 
9 



130 TWO MILLIONS. 

That cowed and awed him, though he knew not why, 

As the dumb beast quails from the coming storm 

It dreads to meet, but sees not how to fly. 

He crossed the sill ; she pointed to the bed ; 

There lay her boy, his innocent, curly head 

Nestled upon the pillow, and his face 

Lit with the solemn and unearthly grace 

That crowns but once the children of our race ; 

God gives it when he takes them, — he was dead I 

A broken toy, a bunch of withered flowers, 

In his thin hands were clasped his breast above, 

The last frail ties that to this world of ours 

Had linked the sufferer, save a mother's love. 

He saw and looked away, his dull, dark brow 

Touched with no gleam of sympathy ; but now 

The latent lightning loosed and flashed, and woke 

The pent-up tempest of her soul ; it broke, 

With all that woman's frantic grief could pour, 

Upon his guilty head, as she charged home 

Her husband's death, her sweet child's martyrdom, 

To his account, and bade him pay the score. 

She paused a moment, as upon the dun, 

Dark, city roofs that stretched below, the sun 

Threw out its setting gleam, and lit the tips 



TWO MILLIONS. 131 

Of tapering masts, where the great merchant ships 

Lay at their wharves, and tinged the towering spires 

With the last flicker of its waning fires, 

As all along the wintry sky they streamed. 

She turned and saw ; like one inspired she seemed, 

With a prophetic fury, as of old, 

Some fabled Pythoness whose vengeance rolled 

Along the Delphic shadows and foretold 

The doom of empires. " Look ! look ! " she cried, 

" The sun is setting on your pomp and pride ; 

See the great city, stretching through the light, 

Its million pulses beating towards the night ; 

Think not for such as you it toils and groans 

In ceaseless struggles, for the very stones 

Would cry aloud, were all its wealth like yours ; 

Know that the righteous heaven scarce endures 

Your hateful presence ; nor can I ; away, 

And bear the curse of this avenging day ; 

The hour is near when you shall colder lie 

Than this poor babe who here has crept to die ; 

Then know that close behind your gorgeous hearse 

Shall follow, in its train, the widow's curse, 

And, heavier than the marble, on you press 

The malediction of the fatherless 1 " 



132 TWO MILLIONS. 

Firkin was speechless ; there he stood and stared, 
While his dull eye with sudden fury glared, 
In a blank silence, then, with queenly air, 
She waved him from her, like a worthless thing. 
He, from the withering glance he could not bear, 
Shrank all abashed, and went, the poisoned sting 
Rankling and festering in the inmost core, 
Of that self-love no shaft could pierce before. 
He boiled with rage ; he felt he had been tricked 
Into the garret, and his person picked 
Of all its dignity ; his seething brain 
With fury reeled and throbbed with sudden pain, 
And a vague terror he could not restrain. 
Still, as he hurried on his homeward track, 
Upon his thought the garret scene came back, — 
The desolate room, the corpse, the withered flower, 
Her curse, the blight of all that sunset hour, 
Haunted and dogged him, through the shadows dim, 
Outran his heavy step, awaited him 
As through his spacious halls he passed and sought 
His private chamber, where, with cunning wrought, 
Cased in the solid wall, with massive locks 
And bolts and bars, he kept his great strong box. 
There in the winter evenings he resorted, 



TWO MILLIONS. 133 

His deeds and bonds and mortgages assorted, 
Indulged in long financial lucubrations, 
And laid his plans for future speculations. 
Thither he hastened now, to cool the flame 
Kindled within by hate and scorn and shame ; 
Hour after hour he sat, and vainly tried, 
In all his great estate to screen and hide, 
From his own sense, his galled and blasted pride. 
He felt himself a beggar ; had he dreamed, 
Or was he really what, in thought, he seemed, 
Bankrupt and penniless ? From a secret till 
He drew, with hasty, trembling hand, his Will, 
That weighty document, on which depended 
So much, when once his lease of life was ended ; 
Perchance 't would reassure him there to see 
The whole Two Millions in epitome ; 
He grasps it firmly, J t is no mockery ! 
But, as he grasps, why does his sight grow dim, 
And all the page before his senses swim ? 
There is no strange handwriting on the wall, 
Through all the midnight hush no threatening call, 
Nor on the marble floors the stealthy fall 
Of fatal footstep. All is safe. Thou fool, 
The avenging deities are shod with wool ! 



134 TWO MILLIONS. 

Nor in the air around, nor overhead, 
We hear the sound nor echo of their tread, 
Nor catch the rustling of the rapid dart 
That wings its errand to the victim's heart ! 



IV. 



And there they found him, when the morning broke, 
And from their attic dreams the housemaids woke ; 
The earliest servant, while from floor to floor 
She went, was startled as she passed the door. 
The room was silent, but the light still burned, 
And, wondering at the unwonted waste, she turned, 
Looked in with curious eye, then at the sight, 
Or what she thought she saw, started with fright ; 
Started, but checked a scream ; looks in once more, 
Laughs, half in earnest, at her silly fears ; 
Then ventures in, with rapid step, uncertain, 
And, breathless with fresh terror, draws the curtain, 
Crimson and heavy ; and the daylight peers 
Through the great window, not a friendly visitor, 
But with the cold, gray glance of an Inquisitor, 



TWO MILLIONS. 



135 



Searching and prying, with malignant spite, 
To drag some hidden horror to the light. 
A moment, while her heart beats fast and faster, 
The servant stands and looks upon her master ; 
One glance from head to foot, from foot to head, 
Then through the house shouts, frantic, "He is 
dead!" 

Soon, roused from sleep, the startled family 
(Those Firkin cousins, to the tenth degree), 
From every room, rush to the fearful place, 
Where, cold and rigid, with distorted face, 
And stiffened limbs, and fixed and ghastly glare, 
He sits, a spectacle ; but I forbear 
The gross description, though the situation 
Tempts to the tragic, with solicitation 
To launch our song upon the tide that sets 
Towards melodramas and police gazettes, 
Blood-red with horrors ; let me rather screen 
The dismal picture, and dismiss the scene. 
Yet, ere it passes wholly from the thought, 
By one strange sight the startled sense is caught ; 
Those outstretched hands, what is that they clasp, 
With clutch convulsive, in their iron grasp ? 



136 TWO MILLIONS. 

Half in each hand, a torn and crumpled roll, 
What Sibyl's mystic leaves, or fated scroll ? 
They marvel, too, the crowd who stand and stare, 
Grouped in the chamber, round the fatal chair, 
Shocked and bewildered, striving to condense 
Their vague, uncertain terror, to a sense 
Of present evil, as they look and wonder 
At the clinched hands and pages rent asunder ; 
Then swift suspicion follows on surprise, 
They seize the fingers motionless and still, 
Glance at the severed sheets with searching eyes, 
And point and whisper, U 'T is the dead man's Will ! " 

Firkin's last will ! But who may know the fact, 
Whether destroyed by his deliberate act, 
Or torn and severed in his struggling clutch, 
When, with convulsive throes, the sudden stroke 
Shot through his frame, swift as the lightning touch 
Shivers, with fatal flash, the heart of oak. 
This is the question which they much revolve, 
And long to guess and vainly seek to solve. 
As through the halls, and up the staircase grand, 
The lifeless, heavy weight is slowly borne, 
Still, as he goes, he grasps in either hand 



TWO MILLIONS. 137 

The rustling leaves, illegible and torn ; 

And when they lay him, like a child asleep, 

Gently upon his bed, his fingers keep 

Their desperate hold ; and still returns the query 

With which their wits the anxious household weary, 

How came it thus ? by chance or act of sense ? 

And what, in either case, the consequence ? 

If torn unconsciously, is not the paper 

His will no less ? A little wax, a taper, 

If from his hands it can be loosed with care, 

Are all it needs the damage to repair. 

But is that wisest ? It is undecided 

As yet, entirely, what the will provided, 

To whom it showed his final generosity, 

To whom his love, and whom his animosity ; 

Better perhaps believe it his intent 

To leave behind him no last testament, 

And so destroyed it ; but then who are heirs, 

And what will be their rights, and what their shares ? 

One thing is certain, " We at once must see 

If 't is a case of real intestacy ; 

Without delay or further speculations, 

How can our sorrow reach its true degrees, 

Until we know, his sorrowing relations, 



138 TWO MILLIONS. 

If we are heirs at law or devisees ? 

This must be fixed beyond all contradiction, 

And that at once ; business before affliction ! 

We can postpone the heavier claims of sorrow, 

The mourning won't be ready till to-morrow ; 

It is but just/ 7 in this they all agreed, — 

" That the inquiry should at once proceed, 

He was so prompt, in life ; at any rate, 

It will not do that we degenerate ; 

Whatever happens to his fortune ample, 

He has, at least, bequeathed us his example 1 " 

So out of reverence, a new variety, 

And touching instance of collateral piety, 

Before his form was dressed for its last journey, 

The afflicted household sent for their attorney ! 

Firkin had hated lawyers all his life ; 
Not that he feared the risks of legal strife, 
'T was rather suited to his inclination 
To keep a moderate stock of litigation. 
But lawyers were a class he never trusted, 
And most of all when fees must be adjusted ; 
Like all this world's best things, he could not use 
them 



TWO MILLIONS. 139 

Without a strong temptation to abuse them, 

And that more heartily, because, no doubt, 

They were the men who soonest found him out. 

Why should they thrive ? (in his wise way he said it,) 

They had no capital and little credit ; 

And if their talents helped them to their gains, 

Why, then there ought to be a tax on brains ! 

Besides, a weightier argument he founds — 

The virtuous censor — on high moral grounds, 

" He knew the law to be a knavish science, 

Made to demoralize ingenuous clients ; 

Who ever saw a single instance yet 

Of any debtor sneaking out of debt, 

By pleading usury or limitation, 

Save by a lawyer's pen and penetration ? 

Who ever skulked behind the law's delay, 

Unless some shrewd attorney showed the way, 

By his superior skill got the ascendant, 

And let astray the innocent defendant ? " 

? T was touching, quite, his horror when he saw 

How lawyers set aside the moral law. 

Thus, under cover of the Decalogue, 

He aimed and fired, through thickest mental fog, 

His red-hot shot at that suspicious craft, 



140 TWO MILLIONS. 

The New York Bar, and raked them fore and aft. 
Protesting ever, as his firm conviction, 
An honest lawyer was a legal fiction ! 

Yet he employed one ; in his dangerous hands 
Trusted the title-deeds of all his lands ; • 
Breathed in his ear his choicest confidence ; 
Drew from his subtle mind its keenest sense ; 
Taxed him with problems new and strange, and kept 
His tired brain working, while his client slept. 
He loved to see the athletes of the bar, 
Foot-sore and dusty, chase the gilded car 
Of wealth, and feel, keen as the driver's lash, 
In all their strength, their conscious need of cash ; 
And loved to see their learning and their skill 
Drudge in his cause, like Samson at the mill. 

Well, let it pass ; his prejudice, perchance, 
Was partly envy, partly ignorance ; 
And most the latter, for the loudest bark, 
As we all know, is always in the dark ! 

The man of law obeys the sudden warning, 
Which summoned him to seek the house of mourning ; 



TWO MILLIONS. 141 

His measured footsteps crossed the marble hall, 
And, scarce perceived, he entered where they all 
Waited his coming ; not in mute suspense, 
But with loud strife, impatient and intense. 
They had contrived, I know not in what way, 
To extricate the will, and there it lay, — 
Its separate fragments strewn upon the table, 
And all its items, as they best were able, 
They had deciphered, — some with eager pleasure, 
Some with vexation which no words can measure ; 
For those were well endowed, who nothing merited, 
These scarcely mentioned, or quite disinherited ! 
I cannot pause to give the long deduction, 
But to the household peace it was destruction ! 
At once two parties, in that hour of death, 
Sprang into life, full armed, with poisoned breath, 
" Will" and "No Will," their test and shibboleth. 
And, when the lawyer came, both sets of heirs 
Pounced fiercely on him, claiming he was theirs. 
He calmed the uproar, heard the story through, 
And strove in vain to catch its hidden clew. 
To tear his will had Firkin really meant, 
Or was it only a strange accident ? 
Perchance a question purely of intent, 



142 TWO MILLIONS. 

Perchance of doubtful law ; in either view, 
The case was novel and the point was new ; 
And, it was plain, at the first observation 
Good for a Trojan War of litigation. 
Straight on the lawyer's clear, prophetic sight, 
The Firkin Will Case rises into light, 
Latest and greatest of the famous causes, 
About last wills, their codicils and clauses. 
He sees the eager birds of prey who wait, 
Around the carcass of the huge estate, 
In the dim chambers of the Surrogate ; 
Three bulky quartos stuffed with the proceedings, 
Ten leading lawyers crammed with special plead- 
ings ; 
A hundred witnesses on either side, 
With cross-examinations scarified ; 
And twenty doctors, portly and persistent, 
With twenty theories, all inconsistent ! 
But, fairest sight of all, besides, he sees 
A princely revenue of costs and fees, 
No risk of loss, no client to be dunned, 
All the expenses charged upon the Fund ! 
Here was Temptation. Here, too, Opportunity 
To plead for peace, domestic love, and unity. 



TWO MILLIONS. 143 

A lawyer's duty, as its line he saw, 

Was first to keep his clients out of law ! 

He seized the occasion ; while his sallow face 

Flushed with the unwonted theme, he snatched a 

grace, 
Beyond the utmost reach of Coke or Chitty, 
And half in honest scorn, and half in pity, 
While all his hearers marvelled as he spoke, 
Thus from his lips his stern remonstrance broke : — 

" My friends, this should be ended ! Mend the will, 
Mend it and prove it, and thereby fulfil 
The better law of love, and kindly waive 
All thought of strife above the new-made grave. 
Close the estate as in the will provided, 
But with the agreement, that it be divided, 
By those who take, in just and generous shares, 
Among all parties claiming to be heirs. 
Take my advice, the best in all such cases, 
And come to terms upon this liberal basis. 
Who fights to the end may win, but doubly wise 
Who knows the moment when to compromise, 
And, for a bird in hand, forbears to push 
A doubtful search for two inside the bush. 



144 TWO MILLIONS. 

" Far better thus than make your names a handle 
For public ridicule and private scandal ; 
Far better thus than drag through all the courts, 
To point opinions and to swell reports ; 
To make the rich man shudder as he sees 
How swift a curse, what dire calamities, 
May wait upon the wealthiest, for whom — 
Equal with beggars in the final doom — 
Death is appointed, with its unknown ills, 
And after death, the probate of their wills ; 
The ruinous vices, or the endless hate, 
Too oft distributed with their estate, 
Or the hot haste which, in one generation, 
Squanders a lifetime's slow accumulation. 
To make the poor man, in his worst despair, 
Thank God, at least, he 's not a millionnaire ' 
To lie, scarce coffined in his marble vault, 
Scarce hushed the echo of the funeral prayers, 
Ere, overhead, begins the fierce assault, 
And deadly struggle of contending heirs ; 
Ruthless of memory or of honest fame ; 
Reckless of virtues, earlier or later ; 
And sinking even the once-honored name 
In that post-mortem title, the Testator! " 



TWO MILLIONS. 145 

And did they settle, counselled thus and chid, 
My precious reader, do you think they did ? 
He left the house, his fruitless task was done ; 
And soon the clients following, one by one 
(Each eager in the race to be the winner), 
Retained a dozen lawyers before dinner ! 

Meanwhile, a hundred rumors took the air ; 
"Firkin was dead, the famous millionnaire, 
Found dead at daylight, sitting in his chair. " 
This was the first report, startling and strange, 
Posted on bulletins and heard on 'Change ; 
Sadder the story scarce could be, or shorter. 
Indeed, our valued friend, the news reporter, 
Found it too short, an incident so solemn 
Should furnish solid matter for a column ; 
And to despatch it in a paragraph 
Were to disgrace the Associated Press, 
And bring discredit on that gallant staff 
Of short-hand Templars, at whose challenge dreaded 
Each faintest whisper, each remotest guess, 
A city item stands, in line and leaded, 
To pierce from Wall Street to the Wilderness. 
'T was not enough the matter was so serious, 
10 



146 TWO MILLIONS. 

Items determined it should be mysterious ; 

A flood of rumors must be got about, 

The public head must have a rush of doubt, 

The public sense be stunned with contradiction, 

Then kept alive with stimulants and friction. 

So at the first announcement Items hinted 

That strange developments would soon be printed ; 

Then in loud whispers, like a stage " aside/ ' 

Gave out vague inklings about " suicide/' — 

" Death by his own rash act/ 7 — the hidden clew, 

Domestic troubles none but Items knew ; 

Financial storms not dreamed of in the street, 

Till Items should divulge the balance-sheet. 

This fires the train, — the incendiaries throw 

Upon the town, completely to perplex it, 

The choice of weapons for the fatal blow 

By which poor Firkin made his final exit ; 

A master stroke, for the whole point is now, 

Not did he kill himself, but only how ? 

But 0, sagacious Items, well you know 

How wise to have two strings to one long bow ; 

Discreetly, therefore, at the self-same time, 

You give oracular hints of darker crime, — 

" Firkin a suicide ! nothing absurder, 



TWO MILLIONS. 147 

Murder will out, and what is this but murder ?" 
Perchance a luckier venture than the first, 
The public likes so well to know the worst, 
And with the latest horror slake the thirst, 
The old, undying, human thirst for blood, 
Whose savage scent, keen as in kite or vulture, 
Still filters down from our primeval mud, 
Through the pure Parian of our modern Culture. 
But, about noon, both theories exploded, — 
A fatal issue, Items had foreboded, 
But still the veteran energies contrive 
To fan the spark and keep the fire alive ; 
For now the story of the will, at last, 
Is in the wind, and flying free and fast ; 
Items must haste the rumor to sequestrate, 
And tell the world that Firkin died intestate ! 

And the world listens, with its greedy ears, 
And in the midst of all its cares and fears, 
Its toils and troubles, stands a moment still 
To ask if, really, Firkin left no will. 
And then to question, doubt, and speculate, 
What will become of his immense estate. 
Or may not yet the damaged will suffice, 



148 TWO MILLIONS. 

Why should the statute be so over-nice ? 

fond and foolish world ! why waste a thought 

On these vain matters which concern you not ; 

Let the Two Millions tremble in the scales, 

What odds to you whichever side prevails ? 

captious cynic, thus the world replies, 

Our empty pockets do not blind our eyes ; 

A solid fortune, though not half a dime 

Come to our fingers, is a sight sublime ; 

That which is rarest still the most will please ; 

Why to the distant Alps and Pyrenees, 

And Apennine and Tyrol do you roam, 

When there are lakes and mountains here at home ? 

No, while you stray to distant fields Elysian, 

Leave us, we pray, our cheaper home-made vision ; 

Let us enjoy, in all its golden glare, 

The distant prospect of the millionnaire ! 

But most of all this sudden stroke of fate 
Provoked the legal world to high debate ; 
The grateful Bar, with tears in all its eyes, 
Sees that in Firkin's death it draws a prize ; 
That he, like many of our rich patricians, 
Who all their lives have grudged a counsel fee, 



TWO MILLIONS. 149 

Quarrelled with costs and term fees and commis- 
sions, 
The law and lawyers, — after death would be, 
In spite of every adverse prepossession, 
A liberal patron of the learned profession. 
In clearest light the admiring Bar foresaw 
Firkin would live immortal in the law, 
His fame should rise sublime, in after ages, 
To heights, in life, he never dreamed to clamber, 
His name embalmed in scores of legal pages 
In lucid dicta, like a fly in amber ! 

Some hours before, when first the stir began, 
They brought the rector word ; the worthy man, 
Shocked at the dismal news, sat down to plan 
A funeral sermon for the great occasion, 
Which should convey, from every earthly station, 
The richest member of his congregation. 
Richest, smooth phrase which, with its silken rarity, 
Covers as great a swarm of sins as charity, 
And even with the strict ecclesiastic, 
Watching benignly o'er his city fold, 
So often swerves his sense, with influence plastic, 
Against their vices to offset their gold ; 



150 TWO MILLIONS. 

For human nature to itself is true, 
And still the same in pulpit and in pew. 
Nay, never start and frown with aspect sinister, 
My worthy madam, I don't mean your minister ! 
But only Firkin's ! my reverend friend, 
Your knee should surely be the last to bend 
In mammon worship ; for the priest and preacher 
Should, like his Master, aim to be the teacher 
And friend of every man who walks the earth, 
Without the question, " How much is he worth ? " 
But tell me, you, whose polished periods poured, 
In vain, on Firkin, while he slept and snored. 
Snug in the tufted velvet ; you who have 
The wealthy with you always, — can you brave 
The social tyrannies, whose iron heel 
Tramples on Christian love and faith and zeal, 
And makes God's poor almost an exiled race, 
Even from the open temples of his grace ? 
Say, in your sympathies who largest shares, 
Or in your secret sighs, or public prayers, 
This well-endowed, well-clad, well-fed parishioner, 
Close by the chancel, or that poor petitioner, 
Who hides and worships in the distant gallery, 
And never paid a penny towards your salary ? 



TWO MILLIONS. 151 

Say which you welcome with the warmest smiles, 

These brilliant butterflies, whose dazzling files, 

In rustling silks, sweep through the sacred aisles ; 

Or that sad sister, half ashamed to go 

To praise her Maker, clad in calico ! 

Say, for these queries you can best determine, 

What is the aim in that grand charity sermon, 

Full of fine points, which you shall preach to-night, 

Dives' subscription, payable at sight, 

Or yonder widow's prayer and widow's mite ? 

There is who marks them both ; there is who weighs, 

In His just hands, the offering and its praise, 

With whom the test of that unerring trial 

Is not the dollar, but the self-denial ! 

But this is episode ; its innocent source, 
Firkin's unwritten funeral discourse, 
For which our clerical friend is sore perplexed, 
Where to discover an appropriate text ! 
In vain, on eulogistic thoughts intent, 
He turned the pages of his Testament. 
Skipped the Beatitudes. The place passed by, 
About the camel and the needle's eye ; 
Gave up the Gospels ; hurried past the facts 



152 TWO MILLIONS. 

Narrated of the early Church, in Acts, 
Especially those which state the primitive way 
They held all things in common at that day, 
(A dangerous theory, to our times un suited, 
And which the rector had himself refuted,) 
Then through the Epistles, but no word was there 
From which to canonize a millionnaire, 
But solemn warnings, ranking wealth and stations, 
Not with God's blessings, but the world's tempta- 
tions, 
And flaming words, which, like the sword that 

turned 
Each way before the gates of Eden, burned 
With the swift flash of vengeance, and foretold 
Garments moth-eaten, and the cankered gold, 
And treasures heaped together for the days, 
Which should be lurid with their final blaze ! 

At last he gave it up ; then thought that since 
'T was not the Christian, but the merchant prince, 
He was to praise and bury, it was best 
To bring his virtues to the easier test 
Of worldly wisdom ; plant its fairest laurel 
On Firkin's brow, and point its finest moral. 



TWO MILLIONS. 153 

The task was easy now ; the rector took 
Once more, with lightened heart, the Sacred Book, 
Turned back the leaves, and chose, with tact sur- 
prising, 
A text from Proverbs, about early rising ! 

Thus, through the fevered hours, that busy day, 
So full of Firkin, slowly wore away, 
Until the night came down, with friendly pity, 
To breathe its blessing o'er the troubled city. 
And while the twilight deepens, far and near, 
One word, my reader, in your private ear, — 
The will was left untouched. On its first head, 
The funeral discourse was knocked and killed ; 
The dozen lawyers left without their fees ; 
And all the castles in the air which reared 
Their golden towers before the devisees, 
Were mined and stormed, blew up and disap- 
peared, — 
One little fact this fearful ruin spread, 
To tell the plain truth, Firkin was not dead ! 



154 TWO MILLIONS. 



Once more, a single moment, and the scene 
Shifts to the garret ; but no tragedy queen 
Discloses now, her proud, swift vengeance heaping 
Upon her victim, but a woman, — weeping ! 
The child was buried ; its rude grave, unstrewn 
"With wreath or flower, unmarked by slab or stone, 
Was closed, and she was in the world alone. 
In the calm twilight, while the shadows crept 
Gently around, as if to soothe her grief, 
Over her drear, parched heart, suddenly swept 
A shower of tears, kind Nature's best relief. 
She wept, and for a moment seemed to know, 
In spite of want, the luxury of woe ! 
She wept ; like water from the riven rock, 
In the dry desert, gushed those unchecked tears ; 
A moment only, for a loud, long knock, 
And heavy footstep, at the door she hears ; 
And the same instant, ere the sound is spent, 
The agent enters. Has he come for rent ? 

He was good-humored, though a rent-collector, 



TWO MILLIONS. 155 

Of shiftless tenants oft the kind protector ; 

His human nature he did not forget, 

And in his heart there still was room to let ! 

He liked the lodger on the topmost floor, 

And knew her for a lady, long before 

He learned the truth, by listening near the door, 

When Firkin was within (for he was there, 

Though all unheeded by our millionnaire) ; 

And now he came, in haste and out of breath, 

To tell the story of the sudden death, 

And the torn will, by which, he thought, perchance, 

She too might share the great inheritance ; 

For he imagined that, in fact, she stood 

Linked to the landlord by some tie of blood. 

But this she heeded not, nor even heard ; 

Her sense was stunned by that first fearful word. 

Could it be so ? And was he really dead, 

Her curse still resting on his aged head ! 

fatal passion ! As she hoped for heaven, 

His cruel wrongs to her were all forgiven, 

For though, in her wild grief, on him she cast 

The heavy forfeit of her ruined past, 

And of her blighted, hopeless future, yet 

Her better nature cancelled all the debt I 



156 TWO MILLIONS. 

Quickly she rose, and from the place she passed ; 
One backward glance she gave — it was the last — 
At the dark tenement-house, forlorn and cheerless ; 
One eager glance, before ; then, swift and fearless, 
Through deepening night, beneath the stars' pure ray, 
With rapid footstep, hurries on her way. 
Blessings go with her ! Ne'er, by pity led, 
A truer heart on holier errand sped ; 
She little knows what sacred honors wait 
To crown her brow, beyond the unfolding gate 
Through which she passes, from her low estate, 
To her high mission ; but good angels ask 
To cheer and guide her in her noble task ! 

And now she stands within the spacious room, 
Where, on his lonely couch, he lies in state ; 
A single light streams through the silent gloom, 
And burns above him, like the torch of Fate. 
The house is silent, for the troop of heirs 
Is absent, busied with the new affairs, 
Which wealth, though distant, shadows with its 

cares. 
The frightened servants, left alone with death, 
Move softly round and speak with whispered breath ; 



TWO MILLIONS. 157 

The dread of apoplexy and the Devil, 
Has even made the pompous footman civil ; 
Rachel had entered freely, and the kind 
But drowsy housemaids willingly resigned, 
At her entreaty, the sad charge, to keep 
Watch by the bedside of that last, long sleep. 
They left her there with him, once more alone ; 
But oh ! how changed, since those few hours had 

flown; 
Then all was scorn and hate ; now, pure and warm, 
Love keeps its vigil by that stricken form. 
She clasps his heavy hand, she bends and kneels ; 
How deep the shade that o'er her senses steals, 
For death, still following in one beaten track, 
With each fresh sorrow brings the old griefs back ; 
And as she meekly bows her weary head, 
She weeps for all her lost and all her dead ! 

Look, Rachel ! Look ! Start from your bended 
knees ! 
Your touch has thrilled him ; look, he stirs, he sees ! 
Breathless, she watches. Yes ! he sees, he stirs, 
His opening eyes are fastened upon hers ! 
Then close convulsive, as when one who shakes 



158 TWO MILLIONS. 

A frightful dream away, and wildly wakes, 

Sees its worst terror waiting by his side ! 

Her form, her face, the strange sepulchral gloom ; 

Is this the hour of vengeance, she the guide 

To light his footsteps to the final doom ? 

Breathless, she watches. Once again, his glance 

Struggles with upward gleam from that strange 

trance ; 
But now its dim foreboding meets the grace 
That pours upon him from her loving face, 
To calm his fear ; once more his eyelids raise ; 
He clings to her with speechless, lingering gaze ; 
One long, imploring look, as if to say, 
" What horrid night is this ? 0, lead me back to day! " 

She led him back ; from that dark, dismal night, 
A wreck and ruin. For the fearful stroke 
Had shattered all his frame, and left its blight 
On all his senses. Nevermore they woke 
To that quick vigor which, before, he prized 
As all of life ; broken and paralyzed, 
With shrunken, wasted form, he draws his breath 
In the dim border land 'twixt life and death. 
Yet not unblessed, for in the fatal thrill 



TWO MILLIONS. 159 

Which rent his spirit, like his own torn will, 

It seemed as if some human springs which lay, 

Unknown, within him, hidden far away, 

Under the worthless rubbish of his wealth, 

Were all unlocked ; and now, as if by stealth, 

The light of heaven creeps through his tremulous 

sense, 
And sheds its grace on his late penitence ! 

She leads him back to day ; no hand but hers 
To all his hourly needs administers ; 
Far from the town she guides his tottering feet, 
And, in the stillness of that calm retreat, 
From her sweet voice he learns the alphabet 
Of truth and duty, and his lips repeat 
The prayers of childhood, and his brow is wet 
With the baptismal seal which love has set 
Upon its furrows. Still to her he clings, 
His Guardian Angel, whose o'ershadowing wings 
Shelter his weakness, while her steady hand 
Upholds, and leads him towards the better land ! 

His wealth remains ; a burden and a care, 
But cheats no longer, with its empty glare, 



160 TWO MILLIONS. 

His spirit, rescued from the fatal snare. 
On her he heaps it ; grateful, while he sees 
Her hands dispense their noiseless charities. 
Hers the Two Millions ; but how poor and cheap, 
How mean and worthless, is the glittering store, 
Beside her treasures, which the heavens keep, 
Whither her broken heart has gone before ! 
Whither, in all her night of toil, she turns, 
For the far-distant dawning prays and yearns, 
And while each deepening shadow round her falls, 
Still waits, like Mary, till the Master calls ! 



Nor waits alone. Such have there ever been, 
Since human grief has followed human sin, 
The patient, perfect women ! As they climb, 
With bleeding feet, the flinty crags of time, 
Not for the praise of man, or earth's renown, 
They bear the cross and wear the martyr's crown. 
Though queenly medal, stamped with royal heads, 
Their humble toil to endless honor weds ; 
Though, like a bow of hope, their fame is bent, 
From side to side of each broad continent ; 



TWO MILLIONS. 161 

And pictured volume, with its tinted page, 

Bears their meek features to the coming age ; 

A higher joy their gentle spirits reap, 

Where, all unknown, their silent watch they keep, 

Far from the echo of the world's applause, 

Through sultry noon, or midnight's dreary pause, 

By sorrow's waking groan or fitful sleep, 

Where helpless infants gasp their parting breath, 

Cradled in suffering and baptized with death ; 

Or strong men, tossing, with delirious lips, 

In fever-tempests and the mind's eclipse, 

Plunge through the starless storm, like foundering 

ships ; 
Or old age, shrinking from the tyrant's clutch, 
Feels, through the darkness, for their tender touch. 
Watching and waiting, till the rising morn 
Shall greet their saintly faces, pale and worn 
With the long vigil, as they steal away, 
Through darkened chambers, at the dawn of day, 
Unloose the casement to the early air, 
Hail its pure radiance with their purer prayer ; 
Drink in fresh courage with its quickening breath ; 
Then shut the sunlight from the bed of death, 
But bear, serenely, to the sufferer's side 
11 



162 TWO MILLIONS. 

A brighter beauty than the morning-tide, 

No eye beholding save their risen Lord's, 

Who sees in secret but in sight rewards ! 

Their fairest earthly crown, the wreath that twines, 

Not round loud platforms, or proud senate domes, 

But those pure altars, those perpetual shrines, 

Which grace and gladden all our Saxon homes ! 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 

A SOUTH-STREET ECLOGUE. 

The fair reader, or gentle, as her eye, or his, 

Strikes these lines, will please pause, while this 
query I press, — 
Do you know what a General Average is ? 

If you do, skip the next twenty lines, more or 
less, — 
A brief legal " opening/ 7 in which I intend 
All the light I can shed very freely to lend 
On a subject all Skippers must needs comprehend. 

Some things we all dread, and not least among 
these 
The dangers and perils and risks of the seas ; 
Since the hour Sindbad first scared slumber away, 
To the last marine list, just published to-day, 
Insatiable Ocean has ceased not to vex 
Our lives with his storms and disasters and wrecks ; 
As truly this moment as when Horace penned 



164 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

His ode to his outward-bound, sea-going friend, 
All voyages are ventures, each good ship that sails 
The toy of the tempest, the sport of the gales ; 
Still Africus, Eurus, and Notus will blow 
Through the cleft thunder-cloud or whirlwind of 

snow; 
Round ancient Charybdis the breakers still roar, 
And wave chases wave to some wreck-sprinkled 

shore. 
Thus, circled with perils, ship, cargo, and freight, 
Involved in one common adventure and fate, 
When disaster befalls, 7 t is equal and fair 
That all the full burden of rescue should bear, 
Each paying its just and proportionate share, 
Which joint contribution, on this equal scale, 
Is called "General Average/' whence hangs our 

tale. 

In South Street, or near it, as all men must know, 
Dealt and dwelt — it is not a great while ago — 
The great house of Mercator, Princeps, & Co., 
Herculean pillars of credit and trade, 
Whose ships and commissions their fortune had 
made, 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 165 

Whose names Commerce wrote on her earliest page, 
In her pre- Alabama, palmier age, 
And still led the list of the wealthiest firms, 
Gazetted full oft in those flattering terms, 
"Our highly respected/ 7 " well-known/ ' "influen- 
tial," 
Whereby, as a species of world-wide credential, 
The freest of presses so fondly evinces 
The trust which it puts in all merchant princes. 
Mercator, the senior, in name and in fact, 
If gray hairs must count, but in shrewdness and tact, 
The trader's twin levers, less thoroughly versed 
Than Princeps, our hero, long-headed, long-pursed, 
Born merchant, self-made, and rough-natured, but then 
Worn smooth by long contact and friction with men ; 
As sharp as the winds of his native Down East, 
In large matters liberal, but close in the least ; 
His heart, like his house door, barred tight, double 

locked, 
Yet thrown open wide to the first friend who knocked ; 
A rough diamond, you say ; yes, could we but plan it, 
That diamonds, instead of pure carbon, were granite ; 
Thus lavish, yet close, in his life's complex plan, 
His own coast-wise steamers resembled the man, — 



166 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

Capacious, well timbered, and sound to the core, 
Fit to sail the broad seas, yet hugging the shore ! 

Enter Princeps one day, brisk, eager for work, 
To whom, pen in hand, rushes Balance, chief clerk, 
His sheet full of figures, his face full of doubt, 
A man in a maze, with no clew to get out. 
" There is trouble, sir, here, in this average case ; 
For once, we are caught in a rather tight place. 
It is now, as you know, some six weeks or more 
Our steamer Spread Eagle that night went ashore 
On Far Rockaway Beach, and up to this day 
No adjustment is reached, the cause of delay 
A couple of cases — just two and no other — 
Consigned, it appears, to one Moses & Brother. 
According to usage, each owner should state 
What his shipment is worth, at fair market rate, 
Sign the average bond, which binds him to bear 
Of the loss, when adjusted, his ascertained share, 
Pay freight, take his goods, and so end the affair. 
This all, with the single exception I named, 
Of Moses & Brother, whose goods are unclaimed, 
Have done ; we have written for value and prices, 
Demanding their invoice, but get no advices ; 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 167 

What courtesy called for we did and beyond, 
Sent twice to their store with the average bond, 
But all to no purpose ; and so, I suppose, 
While waiting their pleasure we never shall close." 

Princeps played with his watch-seal, musing the 
while, 
Then seated himself, and remarked, with a smile, 
His specs on his nose and his pen in the ink, 
" There is a short method of leading, I think, 
This horse to the water, and making him drink ; 
The papers may lie on my desk, if you please, 
While I drop a line to these sly consignees." 
Without further preface, he rapidly wrote, 
In his firm, steady hand, a brief business note, 
As follows, see letter-press copy below : — 

" Counting-House of Mercator, Princeps, & Co. 
(Here fill in, at pleasure, street, number, and date.) 

" Messrs. Moses & Brother. 

" Gents: — 

" We would state 
That two cases ex * Spread Eagle,'' i M 1 & 2,' 
Per manifest shipped and belonging to you, 
Weight and contents unknown, appear to be lost ; 
Not being aware of their value or cost, 



168 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

The adjusters remain unable to close 
Their average statement. If, as we suppose, 
The loss of these goods upon us has to fall, 
Would feel much obliged should you give us a call, 
With proof of the cost, which we trust will be low, 
" Yours mo. truly, 

" Mercator, Princeps, & Co." 

That same afternoon, in the half-opened door, 
Sat Moses & Brother in front of his store, 
His eye and his ear, through the soft summer air, 
Caught the sights and the sounds of Second-Hand 

Square, 
That chosen retreat where few Gentiles repair. 
As patriarchs mused in the folds of their tents, 
He quietly reckoned his dollars and cents ; 
He sat, for although overhead the sign ran 
Thus, " Moses & Brother/' it meant but one man. 
The lease, it is true, was renewed, term by term, 
And rent duly paid, in the name of the firm ; 
But save as thus viewed in the eye of the law, 
The mythical " brother " no eye ever saw. 
The truth was that Moses so relished a lie, 
; T was fraud in a purchase induced him to buy ; 
He scarce made a sale unless this he could do, 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 169 

At once sell his goods and his customer too ; 
So he made his firm name one continuous cheat, 
And hung out the fraud in face of the street. 
If queries respecting his partner were pressed, 
" Mein bruder " was always reported " out West " ; 
While further inquiry, no matter how strict, 
Elicited nothing beyond a " weiss nicht! " 
Well, there, in the light of the fast-setting sun, 
Sat this brace of copartners rolled into one ; 
No pose for a painter, it must be confessed, 
For Moses' appearance was none of the best. 
Alas for the ease with which races decay ! 
What was Absalom once is Fagin to-day. 
Yet Fagin himself, that arch filcher of "wipes," 
Was one of a constant succession of types, 
Since Gentile and Jew, Eoman, Saxon, and Celt, 
From glories ancestral the same lapse have felt. 
That Moses' descent might be rapid and easy, 
Nature made him, it seemed, remarkably greasy ; 
Low-browed, heavy-featured, gross, pimpled, and fat, 
He looked as though life had its source in a vat ; 
A being he seemed whose least contact would soil, 
Who whatever he touched he was certain to spoil, 
Whose hand whosoever should grasp would " strike 
oil!" 



170 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

Thus seated contemplative, Moses was found 
By the prompt penny-postman, footing his round, 
Who halted, with gesture official, and drew 
From his plump letter-pouch Princeps' billet-doux ; 
And saying in passing, •' A letter for you/' 
Lelivered it deftly in Moses' moist hand. 
With his quick, native craft the missive he scanned, 
And cautiously grasped it, as though something 

showed 
It was loaded and primed, and about to explode ; 
Then furtively gazing around him, withdrew, 
Still eying the letter, from all outward view, 
As a dog who in public lights on a bone, 
Sneaks off, like a thief, to enjoy it alone. 

Could the public, as Moses slipped from its eye, 
Have planted itself in his place, on the sly, 
And keyholed him there for a minute or more, 
As he read Princeps' letter inside of his door, 
It would have discovered, by this rapid glance, — 
Interviewing him thus, as if in advance, — 
As he slowly perused, re-perused it, and then, 
More slowly than ever, perused it again, 
(As though, like a bill in due course of proceeding, 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 171 

In Senate or House, it must have its third reading,) 
How quickly his first transient look of alarm 
Was melted away and dissolved by the charm 
Of an audible smile, which seemed to begin 
In the soles of his shoes, welled up past his chin, 
And flooded his face with a broad, unctuous grin. 
As he dwelt on the note, each line, every word, 
The depths of his fraudulent being it stirred, 
Evoked from the dark, murky slime of his thought, 
The germ of a promising swindle he caught. 
"The two cases are lost" ; yes, thus the note read. 
"Lost goods, like dead men, tell no tales," Moses 

said. 
" If lost, their true value will never be told, 
Then how easy, at once, to increase it tenfold ! 
They admit they must pay ; then is it not plain 
Their loss may be turned into Moses' great gain ? " 
And broader, more unctuous, the grin of delight 
Suffused all his face as he vanished from sight. 

Next morn, lubricated anew, and alert, 
With unwonted lustrations from yesterday's dirt, 
Metamorphosed, besides, in clean, ruffled shirt, 
Princeps' letter in hand, by way of credential, 



172 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

With meek, humble air and salute deferential, 

His voice and his bow both pitched equally low, 

Moses greeted Mercator, Princeps, & Co. 

Our merchant received him as genial and bland 

As the bright summer morning, grasping his hand, 

With a glance at the note, a nod of the head, 

"It 's about those lost cases you ? re calling?" he 

said. 
Moses opened at once, as always his wont, 
In very bad English, a true German grunt, 
" Yah, zwei cases/ 7 and then broke down, with an air 
Of utter and helpless and hopeless despair. 
To Queen 7 s English true, Princeps knew but this 

much, 
Or fancied he knew, that all German was " Dutch " ; 
Long usage had certified this to his ear, — 
" Zwei lager" was Dutch for "two glasses of beer." 
So he met Moses boldly, thrusting a brace 
Of fingers directly in front of his face, 
His voice, at the real "you poor foreigner " screech, 
Cried, " Moses ! we '11 give you zwei hundred for 

each ! " 
"Zwei hundert? zwei tausend!" screamed Moses, 

aghast ; 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 173 

And then the pent volume broke forth, full and fast, 

As in the oil region bursts suddenly out 

Some sputtering, dense, oleaginous spout. 

A long lamentation, the burden of which 

Was still the " zwei cases" — those found, he was 

rich, — 
Those lost, Tie was lost, — " zum teufel gegangen," 
Without a resource save " himselbst to erhangen" 
" The goods were a style which could nowhere be 

got, 
Each case a choice order, an extra fine lot" ; 
And he swore and re-swore, in all the Dutch tenses, 
That four tausend in gold would not pay expenses. 
"Come, come," Princeps cried, when at last the oil- 
spout, 
Like so many others, began to give out, 
" Take three thousand cash, — quite enough, my good 

friend, 
For both cases, — and bring the affair to an end." 
But this, like new strokes of the drill on the rock, 
A fresh fountain of feeling served to unlock. 
With new zeal our polyglot Moses began 
To play the unfortunate, badly used man ; 
Rehearsed the same story, protested and swore, 



174 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

Gave figures and dates, and wound up as before, 
With this brave assertion to clinch the last nail, 
And put beyond question the truth of his tale : 
" Dose dings vot I dell you is all recht and fair ; 
If you doubt mein own wort, mein bruder will 
schwear!" 

"Very well, ' ' Princeps said ; "it hardly seems just ; 
But being our loss, if we must, why, we must. 
Four thousand it is. Mr. Balance, please note 
The bargain concluded " ; and so Balance wrote 
Some mystical figures, and, pausing again, 
Politely extended to Moses a pen. 
" For form's sake, the average bond you must sign, — 
Value $ 4000, — here on this line." 
" And now," Princeps said, " I must hurry away ; 
Bank meeting at twelve ; I shall lose, if I stay, 
Five dollars in gold. Call to-morrow, at ten, 
When your check will be signed. Good by until then." 

Moses left in great glee ; descending the stair, 
His foot felt no pressure, he trod upon air ; 
He had spoiled the Philistines, captured their gold ; 
Had come, seen, and conquered, like Caesar of old. 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 175 

The tortuous annals of Second-Hand Square 
Had nothing with this happy stroke to compare ; 
His own private ventures, at home and abroad, 
Had never achieved so successful a fraud ; 
Its brilliant horizon showed only one speck, — 
The fact that he had not yet handled the check. 
But this passing cloud brought no doubt to his 

mind, 
The bargain was closed, and the contract was signed. 
So homeward, rejoicing, he went on his way, 
Revolving the wondrous success of the day. 
As his ancestral creed deemed every day lost 
Which did not enrich him at somebody's cost, 
So gainful a morning might well stir his sense 
With virtue's warm glow, its own rich recompense. 
The prize he had drawn was so wholly his own, 
It heightened its charm to enjoy it alone ; 
Not the wife of his youth, the Rachel and Leah 
Of Moses & Brother, should gain an idea 
Of the great golden secret close hid in his breast 
Like some rare, precious oil condensed and com- 
pressed, 
Till the moment should come its wealth to unfold, 
And flash in full view the four tausend in gold ! 



176 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

On time to a second, the last stroke often 
Found Moses, next day, at our merchants 7 again. 
The greeting of Princeps was even more bland 
Than yesterday's welcome ; he grasped Moses' hand, 
Wringing out the moist fat in his firm, Down East 

grip, 
As a chandler might squeeze a prime tallow dip. 
" Prompt as ever ; no grass grows under your shoes, 
Friend Moses ; I '11 give you the best of good news : 
We were wrong, it appears, and all wish you joy, 
Those two cases are found, — ' gefunden ! ' old boy ! V 
(This phrase I should say that last evening our wary 
Friend Princeps had culled from a "Dutch" dic- 
tionary, 
And boldly delivered it, ore rotundo), 
But to Moses it came as a voice de prof undo. 
" Gefunden!" he stammered, and sank in a chair, 
Then turned to the window, pale, gasping for air. 
Princeps followed him up. " What wonderful luck! 
There, Moses, they come, on that large, yellow 

truck." 
He silently pointed, like Death with his dart ; 
Moses stared with a dying man's glare at the cart, 
Which bore the two cases, a sorry exhibit, 



GENEEAL AVERAGE. 177 

Like a pair of old rogues en route to the gibbet. 
Drowning men catch at straws ; he seized one last lie, 
Which rose to his lips as the cartman drove by ; 
A sharp, cunning glance from the window he sent, 
Then cried, " Dose are not the zwei cases I meant ! 
It must be they come by the next steamer trip ; 
Now I dinks of it, so ! it was not this ship." 
Warming up to his work, the old scamp commences, 
One by one, to unlie his first false pretences ; 
For one falsehood before he now utters six, 
Declares the zwei cases are really worth " nix," — 
" Old rags," "refuse stuff," all bought for a song, 
And finally vows that they do not belong 
To Moses & Brother, but just came consigned 
For a friend, whose address he can't call to mind ; 
With other choice fictions, a similar strain, 
Winding up with the old, familiar refrain, 
" Vot I dells you dis dime is all on der square ; 
If you doubt mein own wort, mein bruder will 
schwear! " 

"Too late!" Princeps cried; "the adjustment is 

made ; 
By the value you fixed your share must be paid. 
12 



178 GENERAL AVEEAGE. 

Just forty per cent on four thousand is due ; 

The measure you meted is measured to you. 

; T is a charge on the goods, — you say they are trash ; 

So cart them away, and pay over the cash, 

Your average share, sixteen hundred, in gold, 

Or suit will be brought, and the lies you have told 

Will more than suffice, unless justice fail, 

To lock up your whole firm in Ludlow Street Jail. 

Henceforward," — here Princeps gazed solemnly 

round 
On his clerks, who all stared in silence profound, 
Impressively raising his voice and his hand, 
"With pulpit-like air, as if taking his stand 
On high moral ground, as a teacher of youth, — 
" Henceforth, Messrs. Moses, pray stick to the truth. 
You see, from the painful reverse of to-day, 
That lying, though pleasant, is not sure to pay ; 
You learn that the way of transgressors is hard ; 
Beware lest, in future, — to speak by the card, — 
Betrayed by your greed for this world's filthy lucre, 
You are euchred by those whom you seek to euchre ! " 

You often have read of, oft witnessed, perhaps, 
The exit of Shylock, in total collapse, 



GENERAL AVERAGE. 179 

Under Portia's consecutive, vigorous raps ; 
But Princeps declares no Shakspearian page, 
Nor Old Bowery boards, nor Booth's classic stage, 
Nor height of high tragedy, ever discloses 
Such an outburst of rage as the exit of Moses. 
To say "he boiled over " is certainly not 
A tithe of the truth ; you must fancy the pot, 
Suspended so long in this figure of speech, 
By which our weak language endeavors to reach 
A rage past portrayal by pen or by pencil, — 
Must fancy, I say, this time-honored utensil, 
Brimful, in this instance, with all Moses' oil, 
Breaking up in one vast, ferruginous boil, 
Flaming forth, comet-like, on its fierce, fiery path, 
A great, greasy, hissing, red globule of wrath ! 
An explosion was heard, a volcanic splutter, 
A volley of oaths which no Christian could utter ; 
And the counting-room door came to, with a flap, 
Like the ancient, traditional thunder-clap, 
In which evil spirits have always retired, 
When suddenly warned that their time has ex- 
pired ; 
And just at the moment he seemed to depart, 
The two cases were heard to go off — on the cart ! 



180 GENERAL AVERAGE. 

"For shame !" cried Mercator, as Princeps that 

night, 
At his bountiful board, in the warm crimson light, 
Told about the discomfited Israelite. 
" Charge me with my share of the ill-gotten profit, 
And give to the poor whatever comes of it. 
I wonder, old friend, how it was, when you wrote 
That ingenious but most disingenuous note, 
Your own monster fib did not stick in your throat. '■' 
" It did, and it does ! " exclaimed Princeps ; " in vain 
My effort to wash it down now with Champagne ; 
For ill-advised words one should surely sit dumb, 
So I quaff, penitential, this bumper of Mumm ! 
friends ! I confess to the damaging fact, 
Of my virtuous life the one doubtful act, 
For which, I admit, it perhaps is but meet 
That I should do penance in some public sheet. 
Yet let the strict censor, while justly he blames, 
The sinner absolve, though the sin he proclaims ; 
Considering this, ere he casts the first stone, 
Were he from Down East what himself might have 

done, 
When Truth stepped aside, and Conscience withdrew, 
To leave a clear field for a Yankee and Jew ! " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE CARNIVAL OF 1848. 

Have you ever seen the Carnival, at Paris, or at Rome ? 

Have you quaffed its cup of merriment when it spar- 
kled at its foam ? 

Have you caught its lively jest, and its stinging pas- 
quinade ? 

Have you jostled with the masks in the motley mas- 
querade ? 

Have you whirled along the Corso 'midst the torrents 
of confetti? 

Have you marvelled at the beauty of the fairy mocho- 
letti ? 

merrier than this, and wilder in its play, 

Is the Carnival they 're keeping on the Continent 

to-day ! 
Not the idle rabble only, nor the shiftless, gay buffoon, 
But the monarch plays the clown, and the prince the 

pantaloon ; 



184 THE CAENIVAL OF 1848. 

With his subjects for spectators, as it suits to clap or 

hiss, 
The sovereign of the last year is the harlequin of this. 

'T was France that set the fashion"", in the month of 

February, 
Louis Philippe led it off, this Carnival so merry, 
To save himself from shooting, and his populace to 



He took the funny character of poor old Ghar-les Dix ; 
And so popular it proved, and so very full of fun, 
That in this famous character he had a famous run ! 

Then perforce with every Frenchman was the Carni- 
val in vogue ; 

Then poets played the statesman, and statesmen 
played the rogue ; 

Then the wisest proved the weakest, and the weakest 
proved most strong ; 

And still goes on this Carnival ; but who may know 
how long ? 

Or, when the masks are taken off, pray, who can tell 
us yet, 

But what seems the Goddess Liberty may prove a 
mere grisette ? 



THE CAENIVAL OF 1848. 185 

But the Germans joined the Carnival, that race of 

steady smokers, 
And took it up in earnest, too, like practical old 

jokers ; 
And of their madcap plans, what did most execution 
Was a monstrous Punchinello, whom they nicknamed 

Constitution ; 
Beneath the palace windows they bring the dreadful 

fellow, 
And all the kings and dukes must dance around this 

Punchinello ! 

Nor was the joke forgotten, nor was the fun the least 
In brilliant, bright Vienna, the Paris of the East I 
There, by the rushing Danube, and in the shady 

Prater, 
The peasant played the patriot, and the student 

played the martyr ; 
Then rang St. Stephen's arches with shouts of bloody 

revel, 
While the altar steps were stained with the orgies of 

the Devil ! 

And though the Emperor Ferdinand frowned on his 
Kaiser-stadt, 



186 THE CAENIVAL OF 1848. 

And called the frolic treason, and rebellion, and all 
that ; 

And though he sent an army for the public taste to 
cater, 

And shot poor Printer Blum for playing legislator ; 

Yet, after all, he could not keep from giving up him- 
self, 

So he dances from his throne, and his crown is on the 
shelf! 

But the Carnival is always the merriest at Rome, 
In the shadow of the Pincian and St. Peter's gorgeous 

dome ; 
While half the world is merry, shall they join the 

other half ? 
no, the Romans only wait to have a louder laugh ! 
Around the Quirinal they cry, " Shall other lands 

outvie us ? " 
" Come out and join the Carnival, thou reverend 

Father Pius ! " 

0, when his turn was come, who joins the Carnival 

quicker 
Than the Pontifex Supremus, and universal Vicar ? 



THE CARNIVAL OF 1848. 187 

Not long it takes his Holiness to practise the deceiver, 
He doffs the saintly cassock, and he dons the modern 

beaver, 
And whirls in footman's livery, and past his palace 

gates, 
Through the Porta San Giovanni, and beyond the 

Papal states. 

So goes this merry Carnival, and who of us that 
guesses 

Where it will stop or what ? t will do in all its wild 
excesses ? 

But it 's evident there 's something in the joke 
that's very taking, 

For with its fun old Europe in all her sides is shaking ; 

And surely to good democrats the joke is not amiss, 

That the sovereigns of the last year are the harle- 
quins of this ! 



THE NEW ARGONAUTS. 

To-day the good ship sails ! 

Across the sparkling sea, 
To-day the northern gales 

Are blowing swift and free ; 
Speed, speed her distant way 

To that far land of gold ; 
A richer prize we seek than they, 

The Argonauts of old 1 

Who goes with us ? Who quits the tiresome shore, 

And sails where Fortune beckons him away \ 
Where in that marvellous land, in virgin ore, 

The wealth of years is gathered in a day ? 
Here, toil and trouble are our portion still, 

And still with want our weary work is paid, 
Slowly the shillings drop into the till, 

Small are the profits of our tedious trade ; 
There, Nature proffers with unstinted hands 

The countless wealth the wide domain confines, 



THE NEW AKGONAUTS. 189 

Sprinkles the mountain streams with golden sands, 
And calls the adventurer to exhaustless mines. 

Come, then, with us ! What are the charms of home ? 
What are the ties of friends or kindred worth ? 

Thither, thither, let our footsteps roam, 
There is the Eden of our fallen earth ! 

Well do we hold the fee of those broad lands 

Wrested from feebler hands, 

By our own sword and spear ; 

Well may the weeping widow be consoled, 

And orphaned hearts their ceaseless grief withhold ; 
Well have our brothers shed their life-blood here, 
Say, could we purchase at a price too dear, 

These boundless acres of uncounted gold ? 

Gome, then ! it is to-day, 

To-day the good ship sails, 
And swift upon her way 

Blow out the northern gales ; 
A twelvemonth more, and we 

Our homeward course shall hold, 
With richer freight within than theirs, 

The Argonauts of old ! 



190 THE NEW ARGONAUTS. 

Alas for honest labor, from honest ends averted ! 
Alas for firesides left, and happy homes deserted ! 
Brightly the bubble glitters ; bright in the distance 

The land of promise gleams, 
But ah, the phantom fortunes of existence 

Live but in dreams ! 
Behold the end afar — 

Beyond the bright deceptive cloud, 
Beneath what dim, malignant star, 

Sails on the eager crowd ! 
Some in mid-ocean lie ; 

Some gain the wished-for shore, 

And grasp the golden ore, 
But sicken as they grasp, and where they sicken, die ! 
There have they found, beside the mountain streams, 
On desolate crags where the wild eagle screams, 
In dark ravines where Western forests wave, 

Gold and a grave ! 
Some for the spendthrift's eager touch ; 

Some for the miser's hoarded store ; 
Some for the robber's grasp, the murderer's clutch, 

Heap up the precious ore, 
Dear bought with life's lost strength, and the heart's 
withered core ! 



THE NEW AKGONAUTS. 191 

cursed love of gold ! 

Age follows age, 
And still the world's slow records are unroll 

Page after page ; 
And the same tale is told, 
The same unholy deeds the same sad scenes unfold ! 
Where the assassin's knife is sharpened, 

In the dark ; 
Where lies the murdered man in the midnight, 

Cold and stark ; 
Where the slave groans and quivers under 

The driver's lash ; 
Where the keen-eyed son of trade is bartering 

Honor for cash ; 
Where the sons wish the fathers dead, of their wealth 

To be partakers ; 
Where the maiden of sixteen weds the old man 

For his acres ; 
Where the gambler stakes his all on the last throw 

Of the dice ; 
Where the statesman for his country and its glory 

Sets a price ! 
There are thy altars reared, thy trophies told, 
cursed love of gold ! 

1848. 



THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT. 

On this sweet Sabbath morning, let us wander 
From the loud music and the gay parade, 

Where sleeps the graveyard, in its silence, yonder, 
Deep in the mountain shade. 

There, side by side, the dark, green cedars cluster, 
Like sentries watching by that camp of Death ; 

There, like an army's tents, with snow-white lustre, 
The gravestones gleam beneath. 

But, as we go, no posted guard or picket 
Stay our approach across the level grass, 

Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicket 
Through which our footsteps pass. 

Sweet spot, by Nature's primal consecration, 
Sacred to peace and thought and calm repose, 

Well in thy breast that elder generation 
Their place of burial chose. 



THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT. 193 

And well, to-day, whene'er the sad procession 

Moves o'er the plain, with slow and measured tread, 

Within thy silent and secure possession 
The living leave the dead. 

Few are the graves, for here no populous city 
Feeds, with its myriad lives, the hungry Fates, 

While hourly funerals, led by grief or pity, 
Crowd through the open gates. 

Here Death is rarer, yet full many a token 

Tells of his presence, on these grassy slopes, — 

The slab, the stone, the shaft, half reared and broken, 
Symbol of shattered hopes. 

Here sleep brave men who, in the deadly quarrel, 
Fought for their country, and their life-blood poured, 

Above whose dust she carves the deathless laurel, 
Wreathing the victor's sword. 

And here the young cadet, in manly beauty, 

Borne from the tents which skirt those rocky banks, 

Called from life's daily drill and perilous duty 
To these unbroken ranks. 
13 



194 THE GEAVEYARD AT WEST POINT. 

Here too the aged man, the wife, the maiden, 
Together hushed, as on His faithful breast, 

Who cried, " Come hither, all ye heavy-laden, 
And I will give you rest ! " 

And little gravestones through the grass are gleam- 
ing. 

Sown, like the lilies, over forms as fair, 
Of whom, to-day, what broken hearts are dreaming, 

Through Sabbath song and prayer. 

Peace to the sleepers ! may the bud and blossom, 
Spring's early bloom and Summer's sweet increase, 

Fail not, while Nature, on her tender bosom, 
Folds them and whispers, Peace ! 

And here at last who could not rest contented ; 

Beneath — the river, with its tranquil flood, 
Around — the breezes of the morning, scented 

With odors from the wood ; 

Above — the eternal hills, their shadows blending 
With morn and noon and twilight's deepening pall, 

And overhead — the infinite heavens, attending 
Until the end of all ! 



AT RICHMOND. 

At Richmond, in the month of May, 
I climbed the city's lofty crest ; 
Below, the level landscape lay, 
And proudly streamed, from east to west, 
The glories of the dawning day. 

There stand the statues Crawford gave 
His country, while with bleeding heart 
She showered upon his open grave 
The laurels of victorious Art, 
And wept the life she could not save. 

Sow grandly, on that granite base, 
The youthful hero sits sublime ; 
The leader of the chosen race, 
The noblest of the sons of Time, 
With all his future in his face. 

And he who framed the matchless plan 
For freedom and his fatherland, 



196 AT KICHMOND. 

Type of the just, sagacious Man, 
Like Aristides, calm and grand, 
Within the Roman Vatican. 

Nor less he wears the patriot wreath, 
The foremost of the three, who stands 
As when with his prophetic breath, 
And flashing eyes, and outstretched hands, 
He cried for " Liberty or Death ! " 

Here surely it is good to be, 
Where Freedom's native soil I tread, 
And, on the mount, transfigured see 
The Fathers, with whose fame we wed 
The endless blessings of the free. 

But when the summit's ample crown 
Flamed with the morning's fiercer heat, 
I turned, and slowly passing down, 
With curious gaze, from street to street, 
Went wandering through the busy town. 

And lingered, where I chanced to hear 
The voices of a crowd, that hung, 



AT KICHMOND. 197 

With laugh and oath and empty jeer, 
Beside a door o'er which was swung 
The red flag of the auctioneer. 

In truth, it was a motley crew : 
The brutal trader, sly and keen ; 
The planter, with his sunburnt hue ; 
The idle townsman, and between, 
With face unwashed, the foreign Jew. 

Within, God of grace ! what sight 
Was this for eyes which scarce had turned 
From yonder monumental height, 
For thoughts upon whose altars burned 
The fires just kindled in its light ! 

So when the rapt disciples came 
From Tabor on that blessed morn, 
What chilled so soon their hearts of flame ? 
The fierce demoniac, wild and torn, 
The cry of human guilt and shame. 

For here were men, young men and old, 
Scarred with hot iron and the lash ; 



198 AT EICHMOND. 

And women, crushed with griefs untold ; 
And little children, cheap for cash ; — 
All waiting, waiting — to be sold ! 

For me, each hourly good I crave 
Comes at the bidding of my will ; 
For them, the shadows of the grave 
Have gathered, or the woes that fill 
The life-long bondage of the slave. 

Too long my thoughts were schooled to see 
Some pretext for such fatal thrall ; 
Now reason spurns each narrow plea, 
One thrill of manhood cancels all, 
One throb of pity sets me free. 

Virginia ! shall the great and just, 
Like sentries, guard the slaver's den ? 
0, rise, and from your borders thrust 
This thrice-accursed trade in men, 
Or hurl your heroes to the dust! 

1858. 



THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER. 

This is Goethe, with a forehead 

Like the fabled front of Jove ; 
In its massive lines the tokens 

More of majesty than love. 

This is Schiller, in whose features, 

With their passionate calm regard, 
We behold the true ideal 

Of the high heroic bard, 

Whom the inward world of feeling 

And the outward world of sense 
To the endless labor summon, 

And the endless recompense. 

These are they, sublime and silent, 

From whose living lips have rung 
Words to be remembered ever 

In the noble German tongue ; cA 



200 THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER. 

Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling 

Into loftiest speech or song, 
Still through all the listening ages 

Pours its torrent swift and strong. 

As to-day in sculptured marble 
Side by side the poets stand, 

So they stood in life's great struggle, 
Side by side and hand to hand, 

In the ancient German city, 

Dowered with many a deathless name, 
"Where they dwelt and toiled together, 

Sharing each the other's fame. 

One till evening's lengthening shadows 
Gently stilled his faltering lips, 

But the other's sun at noonday 
Shrouded in a swift eclipse. 

There their names are household treasures, 
And the simplest child you meet 

Guides you where the house of Goethe 
Fronts upon the quiet street ; 



THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER. 201 

And, hard by, the modest mansion 

Where full many a heart has felt 
Memories uncounted clustering 

Kound the words, "Here Schiller dwelt." 

In the churchyard both are buried, 

Straight beyond the narrow gate, 
In the mausoleum sleeping, 

With Duke Charles, in sculptured state. 

For the monarch loved the poets, 

Called them to him from afar, 
Wooed them near his court to linger, 

And the planets sought the star. 

He, his larger gifts of fortune 

With their larger fame to blend, 
Living, counted it an honor 

That they named him as their friend ; 

Dreading to be all-forgotten, 

Still their greatness to divide, 
Dying, prayed to have his poets 

Buried one on either side. 



202 THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER. 

But this suited not the gold-laced 

Ushers of the royal tomb, 
Where the princely house of Weimar 

Slumbered in majestic gloom. 

So they ranged the coffins justly, 
Each with fitting rank and stamp, 

And with shows of court precedence 
Mocked the grave's sepulchral damp. 

Fitly now the clownish sexton 
Narrow courtier-rules rebukes ; 

First he shows the grave of Goethe, 
Schiller's then, and last — the Duke's. 

Vainly 'midst these truthful shadows 
Pride would flaunt her painted wing ; 

Here the monarch waits in silence, 
And the poet is the king ! 



A YEAR" TO-DAY. 

A year to-day ! swift as the blast 

That clears the mountain's clouded brow, 

My memory cancels all the past, 
From that dark morning, until now. 

That morning, when a sharp surprise 

Pierced through our souls, and side by side, 

With sinking hearts and aching eyes, 
We watched our darling as he died. 

As fair as now, the August sun 

Rose on our grief, and mocked our woe ; 
Ah ! when our night was just begun, 

How cruel seemed the morning's glow ! 

How could he die ? so bright, so fair ; 

More fair and bright than words can say ; 
His heart as open as the air, 

His face as sunny as the day ; 



204 A YEAR TO-DAY. 

His smile, that scattered light around, 

His winning ways, — our joy, our hope, — 

The promise of his love, that crowned 
For us, with flowers, life's brimming cup. 

"Vain was our anguish, vain our prayers, 
We could not stay his fleeting breath ; 

The bitter draught we drank was theirs, 
Who struggle with the victor, Death. 

One parting pang, but one, and thus, 

Upward, amidst the cherubim, 
He rose to Heaven ; but, for us, 

The light of life went out with him. 

And still we watched him, through the hours, 
The long, long hours, of that sad day ; 

We decked his little bier with flowers, 

Sweet flowers, and he more sweet than they. 

He seemed no more of time or earth, 

But a bright being, half divine ; 
That quiet place of childish mirth, 

Transfigured to a holy shrine. 



A YEAR TO-DAY. 205 

How silently, through all the room, 
The gradual twilight shadows crept ; 

Through twilight shade and midnight gloom, 
More silent yet than they, he slept. 

Gently we bore him to his grave, 

And there, with words of love and trust, 

Back to our Mother Earth we gave 
Our precious darling, — dust to dust. 

Sown in corruption, sown in tears, 

How fair a harvest yet shall rise, 
To crown our faith and shame our fears, 

From this cold grave to those warm skies ! 

Home, dearest, to thy heart, the ark, 

For me, in all the storms of fate ; 
That happy home, — how cold, how dark ! 

That heart of thine, — how desolate ! 

And yet one tenderest voice we knew, 
Filled with the love that never errs, 

One warmest, Mother's heart that drew 
Our stricken spirits close to hers. 



206 A YEAR TO-DAY. 

I 

Where is that Mother's voice ? that deep, 
Pure love that solaced all our way ? 

Ah ! fresher tears than those we weep 
For him, are in our eyes to-day. 

To-day, the breath of this calm noon 
Circles her grave ; we can but say, 

"How much she loved him, and how soon 
Her footsteps followed his away ! " 

They walk together, and the blest 
Eternal sunlight now they share ; 

There, in our Father's house, they rest, — 
Our treasures, — let our hearts be there ! 

August 19, 1853. 



F. B. 0. 

CHANCELL0RSVILLE, MAY 3, 1863. 

He was our noblest, he was our bravest and best ! 

Tell me the post that the bravest ever have filled. 
The front of the fight ! It was his. For the rest, — 
Eead the list of the killed. 

On the crown of the ridge, where the sulphurous crest 
Of the battle-wave broke, in its thunder and flame, 
While his country's badge throbbed with each beat 
of his breast, 
He faced death when it came. 

His battery planted in front, the Brigadier cried, 
" Who commands it ? " as fiercely the foe charged 
that way ; 
Then how proudly our gallant Lieutenant replied, 
" I command it to-day I " 

There he stood by his guns ; stout heart, noble form ; 
Home and its cherished ones never, never so dear, 



208 F. B. 0. 

Round him the whirlwind of battle, through the wild 
storm, 
Duty never so clear. 

Duty, the life of his life, his sole guiding star, 

The best joy of his being, the smile that she gave, 
Her call the music by which he marched to the war, 
Marched to a soldier's grave. 

Too well aimed, with its murderous, demonlike hiss, 
To his heart the swift shot on its errand has 
flown, — 
Call it rather the burning, impetuous kiss 
With which Fame weds her own ! 

There he fell on the field, the flag waving above, 

Faith blending with joy in his last parting breath, 
To his Saviour his soul, to his country the love 
That was stronger than death. 

Ah, how sadly, without him, we go on our way, 
Speaking softer the name that has dropped from 
our prayers ; 
But as we tell the tale to our children to-day, 
They shall tell it to theirs. 



F. B. c. 209 

He is our hero, ever immortal and young, 

With her martyrs his land clasps him now to her 
breast, 
And with theirs his loved name shall be honored and 
sung, 
Still our bravest and best ! 



14 



DOBBS HIS FEREY. 

A LEGEND OF THE LOWER HUDSON. 

The days were at their longest, 
The heat was at its strongest, 

When Brown, old friend and true, 
Wrote thus : " Dear Jack, why swelter 
In town when shade and shelter 

Are waiting here for you ? 
Quit Bulls and Bears and gambling, 
For rural sports and rambling 

Forsake your Wall Street tricks ; 
Come without hesitation, 
Check to Dobbs' Ferry Station, 

We dine at half past six." 

I went, — a welcome hearty, 
A merry country party, 

A drive, and then croquet, 
A quiet, well-cooked dinner, 
Three times at billiards winner, — 



DOBBS HIS FERRY. 211 

The evening sped away ; 
When Brown, the dear old joker, 
Cried, " Come, my worthy broker, 

The hour is growing late ; 
Your room is cool and quiet, 
As for the bed, just try it, 

Breakfast at half past eight." 

I took Brown's hand, applauded 
His generous care, and lauded 

Dobbs' Ferry to the skies. 
A shade came o'er his features, — 
' ' We should be happy creatures, 

And this a paradise, 
But, ah ! the deep disgrace is, 
This loveliest of places 

A vulgar name should blight ! 
But, death to Dobbs ! we 7 11 change it, 
If money can arrange it, 

So, pleasant dreams ; good night ! " 

I could not sleep, but, raising 
The window, stood, moon-gazing, 
In fairy-land a guest ; 



212 DOBBS HIS FERRY. 

" On such a night/ 7 et cetera, — 
See Shakespeare for much better a 

Description of the rest, — 
I mused, how sweet to wander 
Beside the river, yonder ; 

And then the sudden whim 
Seized me my head to pillow 
On Hudson's sparkling billow, 

A midnight, moonlight swim ! 

Soon thought and soon attempted ; 
At once my room was emptied 

Of its sole occupant ; 
The roof was low, and easily, 
In fact, quite Japanese-ily, 

I took the downward slant, 
Then, without stay or stopping, 
My first and last eaves-dropping, 

By leader-pipe I sped, 
And through the thicket gliding, 
Down the steep hillside sliding, 

Soon reached the river's bed. 

But what was my amazement, — 
The fair scene from the casement, 



DOBBS HIS FEREY. 213 

How changed ! I could not guess 
Where track or rails had vanished, 
Town, villas, station, banished, — 

All was a wilderness. 
Only one ancient gable, 
A low-roofed inn and stable, 

A creaking sign displayed, 
An antiquated wherry, 
Below it — " Dobbs His Ferry " — 

In the clear moonlight swayed. 

I turned, and there the craft was, 
Its shape Hwixt scow and raft was, 

Square ends, low sides, and flat, 
And, standing close beside me, 
An ancient chap who eyed me, 

Beneath a steeple-hat ; 
Short legs — long pipe — style very 
Pre-Eevolutionary, — 

I bow, he grimly bobs, 
Then, with some perturbation, 
By way of salutation, 

Says I, " How are you, Dobbs! " 



214 DOBBS HIS FERRY. 

He gram and silent beckoned, 
And I, in half a second, 

Scarce knowing what I did, 
Took the stern seat, Dobbs throwing 
Himself 'midships, and rowing, 

Swift through the stream we slid j 
He pulled awhile, then stopping, 
And both oars slowly dropping, 

His pipe aside he laid, 
Drew a long breath, and taking 
An attitude, and shaking 

His fist towards shore, thus said : - 

" Of all sharp cuts the keenest, 
Of all mean turns the meanest, 

Vilest of all vile jobs, 
Worse than the Cow-Boy pillagers, 
Are these Dobbs' Ferry villagers 

A going back on Dobbs ! 
; T would not be more anomalous 
If Eome went back on Rom'lus 

(Old rum-un like myself), 
Or Hail Columbia, played out 



DOBBS HIS FEERY. 215 

By Southern Dixie, laid out 
Columbus on the shelf ! 

" They say ' Dobbs ' ain't melodious, 
It 's ' horrid/ ' vulgar/ ' odious/ 

In all their crops it sticks ; 
And then the worse addendum 
Of ' Ferry ' does offend ; em 

More than its vile prefix. 
Well, it does seem distressing, 
But, if I ? m good at guessing, 

Each one of these same nobs, 
If there was money in it, 
Would ferry in a minute, 

And change his name to Dobbs ! 

" That 's it, they ; re not particular, 
Respecting the auric'lar, 

At a stiff market rate ; 
But Dobbs' especial vice is, 
That he keeps down the prices 

Of all their real estate ! 
A name so unattractive 
Keeps villa-sites inactive, 



216 DOBBS HIS FEERY. 

And spoils the broker's jobs ; 
They think that speculation 
Would rage at 'Paulding's Station/ 

Which stagnates now at ' Dobbs.' 

11 ' Paulding's ! ' — that 's sentimental ! 
An old Dutch Continental, 

Bushwhacked up there a spell ; 
But why he should come blustering 
Kound here, and filibustering, 

Is more than I can tell ; 
Sat playing for a wager, 
And nabbed a British major. 

Well, if the plans and charts 
From Andre's boots he hauled out, 
Is his name to be bawled out 

Forever, round these parts ? 

" Guess not 1 His pay and bounty 
And mon'ment from the county 

Paid him off, every cent, 
While this snug town and station, 
To every generation, 

Shall be Dobbs' monument ; 



DOBBS HIS FERRY. 217 

Spite of all speculators 

And ancient-landmark traitors, 

Who, all along this shore, 
Are ever substituting 
The modern, highfalutin, 

For the plain names of yore. 

" Down there, on old Manhattan, 
Where land-sharks breed and fatten, 

They 've wiped out Tubby Hook. 
That famous promontory, 
Renowned in song and story, 

Which time nor tempest shook, 
Whose name for aye had been good, 
Stands newly christened ' Inwood/ 

And branded with the shame 
Of some old rogue who passes 
By dint of aliases, 

Afraid of his own name ! 

" See how they quite outrival, 
Plain barnyard Spuytenduyvil, 

By peacock Riverdale, 
Which thinks all else it conquers, 



218 DOBBS HIS FERRY. 

And over homespun Yonkers 

Spreads out its flaunting tail ! 
There 's new-named Mount St. Vincent, 
Where each dear little inn'cent 
Is taught the Popish rites, — 
Well, ain't it queer, wherever 
These saints possess the river 
They get the finest sites ! 

" They Ve named a place for Irving, 
A trifle more deserving 

Than your French, foreign saints, 
But if he has such mention, 
It ? s past my comprehension 

Why Dobbs should cause complaints ; 
Wrote histories and such things, 
About Old Knick and Dutch things, 

Dolph Heyligers and Rips ; 
But no old antiquary 
Like him could keep a ferry, 

With all his authorships ! 

" By aid of these same showmen, 
Some fanciful cognomen 



DOBBS HIS FERRY. 219 

Old Cro'nest stock might bring 
As high as Butter Hill is, 
Which, patronized by Willis, 

Leaves cards now as ' Storm-King ! ' 
Can't some poetic swell-beau 
Ee-christen old Crum Elbow 

And each prosaic bluff, 
Bold Breakneck gently flatter, 
And Dunderberg bespatter, 

With euphony and stuff! 

" 'T would be a magnum opus 
To bury old Esopus 

In Time's sepulchral vaults, 
Or in Oblivion's deep sea 
Submerge renowned Poughkeepsie, 

And also ancient Paltz ; 
How it would give them rapture 
Brave Stony Point to capture, 

And make it face about ; 
Bid Rhinebeck sound much smoother 
Than in the tongue of Luther, 

And wipe the Catskills out ! 



220 DOBBS HIS FERRY. 

" Well, Dobbs is Dobbs, and faster 
Than pitch or mustard-plaster 

Shall it stick hereabouts, 
While Tappan Sea rolls yonder, 
Or round High Torn the thunder 

Along these ramparts shouts. 
No corner-lot banditti, 
Or brokers from the City — 

Like you — " Here Dobbs began 
Wildly both oars to brandish, 
As fierce as old Miles Standish, 

Or young Phil Sheridan. 

Sternwards he rushed, — I, ducking, 
Seized both his legs, and chucking 

Dobbs sideways, splash he went, — 
The wherry swayed, then righted, 
While I, somewhat excited, 

Over the water bent ; 
Three times he rose, but vainly 
I clutched his form ungainly, 

He sank, while sighs and sobs 
Beneath the waves seemed muttered, 



DOBBS HIS FEEEY. 221 

And all the night- winds uttered 

In sad tones, "Dobbs! Dobbs! Dobbs!" 

Just then some giant boulders 
Upon my head and shoulders 

Made sudden, fearful raids, 
And on my face and forehead, 
With din and uproar horrid, 

Came several Palisades ; 
I screamed, and woke, in screaming, 
To see, by gaslight's gleaming, 

Brown's face above my bed : 
" Why, Jack ! what is the matter ? 
We heard a dreadful clatter 

And found you on the shed ! 

" It 's plain enough, supposing 
You sat there, moon-struck, dozing, 

Upon the window's edge, 
Then lost yourself, and falling, 
Just where we found you, sprawling, 

Struck the piazza ledge ; 
A lucky hit, old fellow, 
Of black and blue and yellow 



222 DOBBS HIS FERRY. 

It gives your face a touch, 
You saved your neck, but barely ; 
To state the matter fairly, 

You took a drop too much ! " 

I took the train next morning", 
Some lumps my nose adorning, 

My forehead, sundry knobs, 
My ideas slightly wandering, 
But, as I went, much pondering 

Upon my night with Dobbs ; 
Brown thinks it, dear old sinner, 
A case of " after dinner," 

And won't believe a word, 
Talks of " hallucination/ ' 
"Laws of association," 

And calls my tale " absurd." 

Perhaps it is, but never, 
Say I, should we dissever 

Old places and old names ; 
Guard the old landmarks truly, 
On the old altars duly 

Keep bright the ancient flames. 



DOBBS HIS FERRY. 223 

For me, the face of Nature, 
No luckless nomenclature 

Of grace or beauty robs ; 
No, when of town I weary, 
I '11 make a strike in Erie, 

And buy a place at Dobbs ! 



UHLAND, 

WITH TRANSLATIONS 



15 



UHLAND. 

It is the poet Uhland, from whose wreathings 

Of rarest harmony I here repeat, 
In lower tones and less melodious breathings, 

Some simple strains where truth and passion meet. 

His is the poetry of sweet expression, 

Of clear, unfaltering tune, serene and strong; 

Where gentlest thoughts and words, in soft procession, 
Move to the even measures of his song. 

Delighting ever in his own calm fancies, 
He sees much beauty where most men see naught, 

Looking at Nature with familiar glances, 

And weaving garlands in the groves of Thought. 

He sings of Youth, and Hope, and high Endeavor, 
He sings of Love, (0 crown of Poesy !) 

Of Fate, and Sorrow, and the Grave, forever 
The end of strife, the goal of Destiny. 



228 UHLAND. 

He sings of Fatherland, the minstrel's glory, 
High theme of memory and hope divine, 

Twining its fame with gems of antique story, 
In Suabian songs and legends of the Khine ; 

In ballads breathing many a dim tradition, 
Nourished in long belief, or minstrel rhymes, 

Fruit of the old Romance, whose ge ntle mission 
Passed from the earth before our wiser times. 

Well do they know his name amongst the mountains, 
And plains, and valleys of his native land ; 

Part of their nature are the sparkling fountains 
Of his clear thought, with rainbow fancies spanned. 

His simple lays oft sings the mother cheerful, 
Beside the cradle, in the dim twilight ; 

His plaintive notes low breathes the maiden tearful 
With tender murmurs in the ear of Night. 

The hillside swain, the reaper in the meadows, 
Carol his ditties through the toilsome day ; 

And the lone hunter in the Alpine shadows 
Recalls his ballads by some ruin gray. 



UHLAND. 229 

precious gift ! wondrous inspiration ! 

Of all high deeds, of all harmonious things, 
To be the oracle, while a whole nation 

Catches the echo from the sounding strings. 

Out of the depths of feeling and emotion 
Eises the orb of song, serenely bright, 

As who beholds, across the tracts of ocean, 
The golden sunrise bursting into light. 

Wide is its magic world, — divided neither 
By continent, nor sea, nor narrow zone ; 

Who would not wish sometimes to travel thither, 
In fancied fortunes to forget his own ! 

1846. 



THE BEGGAR. 

A beggar through the world so wide, 

I wander all alone ; 
Yet once a brighter fate was mine, 

In days that long have flown. 

Within my father's house I grew, 

A happy child and free ; 
But ah ! the heritage of want 

Is all he left to me. 

The gardens of the rich I view, 
The fields with bounty spread ; 

My path is through the fruitless way, 
Where toil and sorrow tread. 

And yet, amidst the joyous throng, 

The joys of all I share, 
With willing heart I wait, and hide 

My secret load of care. 



THE BEGGAR. 231 

blessed God ! I am not left 

An exile from thy love ; 
On all the world thy smiles descend 

In mercy from above. 

In every valley still I find 

The temples of thy grace, 
Where organ notes and choral songs 

With music fill the place. 

For me the sun, the moon, the stars, 

Reveal their holy rays, 
And when the vespers call to prayer, 

My heart ascends in praise. 

Some time I know the gates of bliss 

Will open to the blest, 
And I, in marriage garments clad, 

Shall rise a welcome guest. 



THE SHEPHERD. 

Beneath the palace of the king 

The gentle shepherd went ; 
The lady looked with longing eyes 

Down from the battlement. 

She threw to him a gentle word, — 

"Would I might go to thee, 
Where on the plain the snow-white flocks, 

And bright red flowers I see ! " 

Thereto the shepherd made reply, — 

" 0, wouldst thou come to me, 
More white would gleam those arms of thine, 

More bright thy cheeks would be ! " 

And now each morn with lingering step, 

Still as he passed the place, 
He looked with earnest eyes until 

He saw the lady's face. 



THE SHEPHERD. 233 

" welcome ! welcome ! princess fair," 

Then cried he joyfully ; 
And soft her gentle answer fell, — 

" Sweet shepherd, thanks to thee." 

The winter fled, the spring- appeared, 

The flowers were fresh and fair, 
The shepherd by the palace came, 

The lady was not there. 

Sadly his welcome strove to rise, 

Sadly the echo fell, 
And soft a spirit whisper sighed, — 

" Sweet shepherd, fare thee well." 



THE MOURNFUL TOURNAMENT. 

With shield and spear apace they ride, 
Seven knights all true and bold, 

For the king's fair daughter 
A tournament to hold. 

Hark ! the bells are tolling, tolling, 

Over the castle wall ; 
As they enter, see the tapers 

Burning in the lofty hall. 

Sweet Adelheid, the princess fair, 
Lieth in death's cold sleep ; 

At her head the old king watches, 
Watches but to weep. 

Then out spake proud Degenwerth, — 

11 Loud must I complain ; 
Vainly have I girt my steed, 

Borne shield and spear in vain." 



THE MOURNFUL TOURNAMENT. 235 

Answered him young Adelbert, — 

" There needs not this lament, 
The daughter of the king is worth 

Always a tournament. " 

Quoth bold Sir Walther : " Rather far 

Our steps be homeward led ; 
Small honor waits to crown their war 

Who battle for the dead." 

Cried Adelbert : " Well is she dead ; 

There liveth none so fair 
To wear her wreath of roses red, 

Her golden ring to wear." 

Forthwith these seven knights so bold 

Rode out upon the plain ; 
Hard was the strife, until, at last, 

Six of the seven were slain. 

The seventh was young Adelbert, 

The victor over all, 
He lighted pale from off his steed, 

And paced the lofty hall. 



236 THE MOURNFUL TOURNAMENT. 

He took the wreath of roses red, 

The golden ring as well, 
Then quickly by the maiden's side, 

As pale as she, he fell. 

Hark ! the bells are tolling, tolling, — 

Wrapt in funeral weeds, 
To the grave the heroes slain, 

The mournful monarch leads ; 

And with the conquering knight they bear 

The gentle Adelheid, 
Beneath one stone, in the cool earth, 

To slumber side by side. 



THE NUN. 

In the silent cloister garden 

Walked a maiden pale and young ; 

Sadly shone the moon above her, 
On her eyelash sparkling hung 

A tear, — ? t was for her lover. 

" Yet 't was well, my own beloved, 
Well that thou hast gone above ; 

Now my heart is thine and purely, 
For an angel I may love, 

And thou art an angel surely." 

Thus with weary steps she wandered, 
Till she reached the sacred place 

Where the Virgin, pure and lowly, 
Stood with features full of grace, 

In the moonlight, calm and holy. 



238 THE NUN. 

At her feet the maiden falleth, 
Looking upward to the skies ; 

In the morning there they found her, 
Closed in death her gentle eyes, 

And the black veil wrapped around her. 



THE SHEPHERD'S SABBATH SONG. 

See, the Sabbath of the Lord 

Sheds its holy beams abroad ; 

At the breaking of the day, 

In the fields afar I stray, 

Through the distance, soft and clear, 

Hark I the matin bells I hear. 

Silently in prayer I kneel, 
Gently o'er my spirit steal 
Holy awe and tender grief, 
And a sacred, calm relief; 
Lord ! how many seen by thee 
Are there kneeling now with me ! 

Lo I the heavens near and far 
Full of light and beauty are, 
Seeming ready to reveal 
All the glories they conceal ; 
Thus the Sabbath of the Lord 
Sheds its holy beams abroad ! 



THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 

There rode through the country three gallants so fine, 
They came to the Landlady, hard by the Rhine. 

" Landlady, hast thou good ale and good wine ? 
And how is that beautiful daughter of thine?" 

" My ale and my wine are fresh and clear, 

But my dear little daughter lies dead on her bier." 

And when they were come to the chamber within, 
All cold in her coffin, the maiden was seen. 

The first, from her face the death-veil he took, 
And looked at her long with a sorrowful look ; 

" 0, would thou wert living, wert living ! " he said, 
" Henceforth I had loved thee, thou beautiful maid." 

But the second, he covers the face once more, 
Then turns from the sight and weepeth sore ; 



THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 241 

"Ah! cold as thou liest there on thy bier, 

I have loved thee, fair maiden, for many a year.". 

But quickly the third, he raises the veil, 
And kisses her mouth so pale, so pale ; 

" I always have loved thee, I love thee to-day, 
And I swear I will love thee, for ever and aye ! " 



16 



THE WREATH. 

A child through sunny meadows strolled, 
And plucked the blossoms there ; 

A lady from the forest came, — 
A lady wondrous fair. 

She wove a garland for the child, 

And twined it on her brow ; 
" wear it ever, it will bloom, 

Although it blooms not now." 

Years fled, and when the maiden walked 

Sadly, the moon beneath, 
Weeping her earliest tears, there came 

A blossom on the wreath. 

And when within her lover's arms 

A happy bride she stood, 
How sweet and precious was the flower 

That burst the opening bud ! 



THE WEEATH. 243 

Soon with a mother's fearful joy, 

She clasped a gentle child, 
And through the garland's leafy sheen 

Much golden fruit there smiled. 

Alas ! her love went sadly down, 

Lost in the cold, dark grave ; 
Now wild in her dishevelled hair 

The leaves of autumn wave. 

She died, — yet still, on her pale brow, 

The faithful garland wore, 
When, wonderful to see, behold, 

Both fruit and flowers it bore ! 



THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. 

In ancient times a castle stood, so proud and loftily, 
Across the land its splendor shone, across the deep 

blue sea ; 
Fair gardens bloomed around where precious odors 

slept, 
And in the rainbows gleaming, the sparkling fountains 

leapt. 

There reigned a fearful monarch for lands and wars 

renowned, 
Pale on his throne he sat, with cruel purpose 

crowned ; 
Fierce passion clothed his thoughts and mingled 

with his breath, 
For all his glance was terror, and all his words were 

death. 

Unto this lordly castle two minstrels came one day, 
One fair, with golden locks, the other worn and 
gray, — 



THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. 245 

The old man with his harp, in all a minstrel's pride, 
Rode on his gallant steed, while walked the youth 
beside. 

Out spake the aged Harper : " Make ready now, my 

son, 
Call all your powers together, and tune your loftiest 

tone ; 
Bid all your songs of joy or grief once more to 

memory start, 
For we perchance this day may move the monarch's 

stony heart." 

Now stand these gentle minstrels the lofty hall 
within, 

Upon his throne the monarch sits, and by his side 
the queen ; 

He clothed in fearful splendor, as gleams the North- 
ern Night, 

She smiling soft and mild, as beams the full moon- 
light. 

The old man strikes the sounding chords, and clear, 

and still more clear, 
The tides of music gush, and break upon the ear, 



246 THE minsteel's cuese. 

Like echoes from the grave his mighty song ascends, 
While heavenly sweet, between, the youth's soft 
carol blends. 

They sang of Spring and Love, the golden time of 

youth, 
Of Freedom, Faith, and Hope, of Holiness and Truth, 
Of all sweet things that soothe, and loftiest things 

that can 
Eouse into hero deeds the wondrous soul of man. 

The courtiers stand in circles, they leave the jest 

unsaid ; 
The warriors fierce and grim with reverence bow the 

hea&; 
The queen is roused with rapture, then sinks in 

dreamy rest, 
And to the minstrels throws the rose from off her 

breast. 

The king with fury trembles; in fiercest wrath he 

cries, 
" Seek you to charm my court and queen before my 

very eyes ? " 



THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. 247 

Then at the youth his sword he hurls, swift through 
his breast it gleams, 

Thereout, instead of golden songs, the gushing life- 
blood streams. 

As by a whirlwind driven, the startled hearers fly, 
The youth within his master's arms breathes out his 

latest sigh ; 
The old man wraps his mantle around the quivering 

clay, 
Then binds it upright on his steed and sadly goes 

his way. 

Outside the castle gates, before the wall he stands, 
And takes once more the wondrous harp within his 

aged hands, 
Then on a marble column dashes the trembling 

strings, 
And cries aloud while far around the solemn echo 

rings : 

" Woe to these halls of pride ! no more shall they 

resound 
With melody or song, or music's gentle sound ; 



248 THE minstrel's curse. 

Here sighs and groans shall echo, and slavish foot- 
steps fall, 
Till burst the bolts of Fate, and ruin buries all. 

" Woe to these blooming gardens ! in the soft light 

of May, 
Behold this pallid face from which the life has passed 

away ; 
Ye blossoms wither at the sight, ye streams forsake 

your flow, 
Give place to barren wastes where desert weeds may 

grow! 

" Woe, murderer to thee ! Curse of the minstrel name ! 
Vain be thy strivings after the bloody wreath of fame ; 
Breathed like a dying breath into the empty air, 
Thy name be lost in silence, the night of death to 
share. 77 

The old man's voice is silent, the heavens have heard 

his cry ; 
Long since, a heap of ruins, the lofty turrets lie ; 
One shattered column stands alone the fatal tide to 

breast, 
Soon tottering to its fall, to moulder with the rest. 



THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. 249 

Where once the gardens smiled a dreary desert lies, 

No tree with grateful shadows, no sparkling foun- 
tains rise, 

No legend tells the monarch's name, his fame no 
lofty verse, 

Forsaken and forgotten, — this was the Minstrel's 
Curse ! 



THE THREE SONGS. 

King Siegfried sat in his lofty hall ; 
"Ye minstrels, who sings me the best song of all ? " 
And a youth stepped forth from the waiting band, 
His sword on his thigh, and his harp in his hand. 

" Three lays have I learned ; the first is a song, 
Forgotten, King Siegfried, it may be too long ; 
'T is — Foully by thee my brother was slain, 
Ay, foully by thee, — I sing it again ! 

" Now list to the second ; I caught its wild tone, 
As I roamed through the dark, stormy midnight 

alone ; 
For life or for death, we must battle, we twain, 
For life or for death, — I sing it again ! " 

Then down on the table he lays his harp, 

And leap from the scabbards their swords so sharp ; 

And long they fight, in the sight of all, 

Till the King falls dead in the lofty hall. 



THE THREE SONGS. 251 

"Now I sing the third song; 't is the best of the 

three, 
Nor soon shall its music grow tiresome to me ; 
In his own red blood, King Siegfried lies slain, 
In his own red blood, — I sing it again ! " 



THE KNIGHT OF SAINT GEORGE. 

I. 

Before Saint Stephen of Gormaz, 
Loud the brazen trumpets ring ; 
'T is where Ferdinand of Castile 
Holds his camp, the valiant king ! 

Almanzor, the Moorish monarch, 
From Cordova hastening down, 
With a mighty host is marching, 
To besiege the loyal town ; 

Armed already, firmly mounted, 

Waits the proud Castilian band, 
While through all the ranks, impatient, 
Rides the gallant Ferdinand. 

" Pascal Yivas ! Pascal Vivas ! 
Pride of all the knightly race, 
Wherefore, on the eve of battle, 
Art thou wanting at thy place ? 

Thou, who once to arm wast foremost ; 
Foremost in the deadly fray, 



THE KNIGHT OF SAINT GEORGE. 253 

Hear'st thou not the warlike trumpet, 

And the battle-cry to-day ? 
While the Christian ranks are fighting, 

Shall they vainly seek thine aid ? 

Shall thy well-won trophies wither, 

And thy laurels droop and fade ? " 
Pascal Vivas cannot hear him, 

In the distant forest glade ; 

Where Saint George's holy chapel 

Stands beneath the ancient shade. 
At the gate his steed is waiting, 

There his spear and shield recline, 

While the knight, in silence kneeling, 

Prays before the sacred shrine ; 
Buried in a deep devotion, 

Thinks not of the distant war, 

As its rising din is echoing 

Through the forest depths afar ; 
•Marks not now his steed's loud neighing, 

As the tumult strikes his ears ; 

But Saint George, his Patron, watches, 

And the distant battle hears. 
From the clouds the Saint descending 

Dons the armor of the knight, 



254 THE KNIGHT OF SAINT GEOKGE. 

Mounts the gallant steed, impatient, 
Hastens onward to the fight. 

Flashing through the fray, triumphant, 
As the lightning from the sky, 
See, he grasps Almanzor's banner, 
And the Moorish squadrons fly ! 

Pascal Vivas' prayers are ended, 
Now he seeks the cloister gate, 
Where, as when at first he left them, 
Steed, and spear, and armor wait. 

Thoughtful towards the camp he hastens, 
And he marvels much to see, 
That they come with shouts to greet him, 
And the songs of victory : 

" Pascal Yivas ! Pascal Vivas ! 
Hail to Castile's noblest son, 
Welcome to the valiant victor 
Who Almanzor's banner won ! " 

Pascal Vivas vainly wonders, 

Fain would still the festive cries, 
Humbly bows his head in silence, 
Points in silence to the skies ! 



THE KNIGHT OF SAINT GEORGE. 255 

II. 

In her bower, the Donna Julia 
Lingers at the close of day ; 
Fatiman, Almanzor's kinsman 
Comes and bears her thence away ! 

With his precious booty swiftly 

Through the forest takes his flight, 
Ten bold Moorish riders with him 
Follow, armed for deadly fight. 

On the second morning, early, 

Now they gain the distant glade, 
Where Saint George's holy chapel 
Stands beneath the ancient shade. 

In the distance, through the forest, 
Well the sacred shrine is known, 
By the Saint's proud form and lofty, 
Sculptured in the solid stone, 

As of old he fought the Dragon, 
Closing in the fatal shock, 
While the princess waits in terror, 
Chained upon the cruel rock. 

Weeping, and her fair hands wringing, 
Donna Julia, at the sight, 



256 THE KNIGHT OF SAINT GEOEGE. 

Cries, " Saint George, thou heavenly warrior, 

Save me from the Dragon's might ! " 
See, from out the Chapel springing, 

On his steed he comes, the brave, 

In the breeze his locks so golden, 

And his crimson mantle wave. 
Fatal is his spear's encounter, 

Fatiman, the Eobber, dies, — 

As of old the slaughtered Dragon, 

Bleeding on the earth he lies ; 
And his ten bold Moorish riders, 

With a sudden, fearful cry, 

Casting shields and lances from them, 

Through the fatal forest fly. 
On her knees, the Donna Julia 

Scarce her weeping eyes can raise ; 

" Ah, Saint George ! thou valiant saviour, 

Thine forever be the praise ! " 
But a second glance she ventures, 

And though fearful still and faint, 

Strangest sight of all discovers, 

Pascal Vivas is the Saint ! 



TWO CITIES 






TWO CITIES 



I. 



Girt with the river's silver zone, 
Her feet the ocean woos and clasps, 

An Empress on her island throne, 

The crown she wears, the sceptre grasps. 

The light that floods her face is shed 

On countless roofs and thronging spires ; 

The cloud-wreath, hovering overhead, 
Is woven from her ceaseless fires. 

Her lap with wealth the wide world fills, 
O'er the wide world her wealth she casts ; 

The forests of a thousand hills 

Have grown to shape her clustered masts. 

With boundless life her senses thrill, 
It throbs through her resounding streets ; 



260 TWO CITIES. 

A mighty nation's tireless will 
In all her million pulses beats. 

But now, heart-sick, sore tried, and faint, 
Upon her cheek the blush of shame, 

She wears, within, the leprous taint 
That blights and blasts her civic fame. 

Yet, with firm hand, aside she tears 
The folds of her imperial robe, 

And, fearless, in the sunlight, dares 
The festering sore to search and probe. 

Plunge deeper yet the cleansing knife ! 

The heart still pours its vital flood, 
The canker has not touched the life, 

The poison is not in the blood ! 



II. 

Some swift enchantment surely fed 
Her virgin grace, her giant might, 

As on her upward way she sped, 

With girded loins and footsteps light 



TWO CITIES. 261 

In living lines, her strange, new name 
Carved on the inland ocean's brim, 

And with her lofty beacon flame 

Fringed the broad prairie's verdant rim. 

Past lakes and forests, hills and plains, 
She pushed her iron pathways through, 

Along whose tracks the freighted trains, 
Like fire-winged serpents, flashed and flew. 

With the heaped grain her rafters bent, 
The native sheaf her golden crest, 

And through her open gates she sent 
The garnered harvests of the West. 

Who now shall blame the glow of pride 

That kindled on her fevered face, 
Restless with thought and eager-eyed, 

Fit type of our impetuous race ? 

To-night her widowed watch she keeps ; 

In sackcloth, by a funeral pyre, 
She sits beside the shapeless heaps 

Where swept the wind-tossed waves of fire. 



262 TWO CITIES. 

Not lifeless yet, though maimed and scarred ; 

The gulf of flame is not her grave ; 
Above these ruins, black and charred, 

Once more the enchanter's wand shall wave. 

The magic of the fearless will 

That wrought and won, in earlier years, 

Still weds to all her strength and skill 
The patience of the pioneers. 

While from all hearts and hands and homes, 
From kindred hearths, from alien shores, 

One world-wide benediction comes, 
One tidal wave of pity pours ; 

Still, as of old, the furnace proves 
The path divinest love has trod ; 

Still, in the midst, a presence moves 
Whose form is like the Son of God! 



So far apart, yet side by side ; 

Her brand of fire, our badge of shame, 
Write the same doom of human pride, 

Their call to duty is the same. 



TWO CITIES. 

Though deep the vengeful firebolt cleft, 
And deep the foul corruption's stain, 

Courage and hope and faith are left, 
Manhood and truth and right remain. 

The skies are clear, the fresh winds blow, 
With trumpet calls the air is filled ; 

Sweep off the wrecks, and far below, 
Upon the old foundations, build ! 

October, 1871. 



263 



THE END. 



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